I 


(fiuglisi)  MXcn  of  Ccttcr 

EDITED  BY  JOHN  MORLEY 


1 


Die  KE  isr  s 


BY 


ADOLPHUS  WILLIAM  WAKD 

// 


4  r  '^TnT 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN      SQUARE 

1882 


-V  ■ 


/ 


2o^pU 


UNIVERSITY1        ■" '- ^'-J 
PREFACE. 


At  the  close  of  a  letter  addressed  by  Dickens  to  his  friend 
John  Forster,  but  not  to  be  found  in  the  English  editions  of 
the  Life,  the  writer  adds  to  his  praises  of  the  biography  of 
Goldsmith  these  memorable  \vo*rds :  "  I  desire  no  better  for  my 
fame,  when  my  personal  dustiness  shall  be  past  the  control  of 
my  love  of  order,  than  such  a  biographer  and  such  a  critic." 
Dickens  was  a  man  of  few  close  friendships — "his  breast, "he 
said,  "would  not  hold  many  people" — but,  of  these  friend- 
ships, that  with  Forster  was  one  of  the  earliest,  as  it  was  one 
of  tlie  most  enduring.  To  Dickens,  at  least,  his  future  biogra- 
pher must  have  been  the  embodiment  of  two  qualities  rarely 
combined  in  equal  measure — discretion  and  candour.  In  lit- 
erary matters  his  advice  was  taken  almost  as  often  as  it  was 
given,  and  nearly  every  proof-sheet  of  nearly  every  work  of 
Dickens  passed  through  his  faithful  helpmate's  hands.  Nor 
were  there  many  important  decisions  formed  by  Dickens  con- 
cerning himself  in  the  course  of  his  manhood  to  which  Forster 
was  a  stranger,  though,  unhappily,  he  more  than  once  coun- 
selled in  vain. 

On  Mr.  Forster's  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  together  with  the 
three  volumes  of  Letters  collected  by  Dickens's  eldest  daughter 
and  his  sister-in-law — his  "dearest  and  best  friend" — it  is 
superfluous  to  state  that  the  biographical  portion  of  the  follow- 
ing essay  is  mainly  based.  It  may  be  superfluous,  but  it  can- 
not be  considered  impertinent,  if  I  add  that  the  shortcomings 
of  the  Life  have,  in  my  opinion,  been  more  frequently  pro- 
claimed than  defined ;  and  that  its  merits  are  those  of  its  author 
as  well  as  of  its  subject. 

My  sincere  thanks  arc  due  for  various  favours  shown  to  me 
in  connexion  with  the  production  of  this  little  volume  by  Miss 


vi  PllEFACE. 

Hogarth,  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  Professor  Henry  Morley,  Mr. 
Alexander  Ireland,  Mr.  John  Evans,  Mr.  Robinson,  and  Mr. 
Britton.  Mr.  Evans  has  kindly  enabled  me  to  correct  some 
inaccuracies  in  Mr.  Forster's  account  of  Dickens's  early  Chat- 
ham days  on  unimpeachable  first-hand  evidence.  I  also  beg 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Budden  to  accept  my  thanks  for  allowing 
me  to  see  Gad's  Hill  Place. 

I  am  under  special  obligations  to  Mr.  R.  F.  Sketchlcy,  Libra- 
rian of  the  Dyce  and  Forster  Libraries  at  South  Kensington, 
for  his  courtesy  in  affording  me  much  useful  aid  and  informa- 
tion. With  the  kind  permission  of  Mrs.  Forster,  Mr.  Sketchley 
enabled  me  to  supplement  the  records  of  Dickens's  life,  in  the 
period  1838-'41,  from  a  hitherto  unpublished  source — a  series 
of  brief  entries  by  him  in  four  volumes  of  Tlie  Law  and  Com- 
mercial Daily  Bememhraiicer  for  those  years.  These  volumes 
formed  no  part  of  the  Forster  bequest,  but  were  added  to  it, 
under  certain  conditions,  by  Mrs.  Forster.  The  entries  arc 
mostly  very  brief ;  and  sometimes  there  are  months  without  an 
entry.  Many  days  succeed  one  another  with  no  other  note 
than  "Work." 

Mr.  R.  H.  Shepherd's  Bibliography  of  Dickens  has  been  of 
considerable  service  to  me.  3[ay  I  take  this  opportunity  of 
commending  to  my  readers,  as  a  charming  reminiscence  of  the 
connexion  between  Charku  Dickens  and  Bochcukr,  Mr.  Robert 
Langton's  sketches  illustrating  a  paper  recently  printed  under 
that  title  ? 

Last,  not  least,  as  the  Germans  say,  I  wish  to  thank  my  friend 
Professor  T.  N.  Toller  for  the  friendly  counsel  which  has  not 
been  wanting  to  me  on  this,  any  more  than  on  former  occa- 
sions. A.  W.  W. 


CONTENTS. 


X 


PAGE 

Preface   v 


CHAPTER  I. 

Before  "  Pickwick  " 1 

CHAPTER  ir. 
From  Success  to  Success 20 

CHAPTER  III. 
Strange  Lands 49 

CHAPTER  IV. 
"David  Copperfield" 85 

CHAPTER  V. 

Changes 108 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Last  Years 146 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  Future  of  Dickens's  Fame 192 


:iTYl 
DICKENS. 

CHAPTER   I. 

BEFORE    "  PICKWICK." 

[1812-1836.] 

Charles  Dickens,  the  eldest  son,  and  the  second  of  tLe 
eight  children,  of  John  and  Elizabeth  Dickens,  was  born 
at  Landport,  a  suburb  of  Portsea,  on  Friday,  February 
7,  1812.  Ilis  baptismal  names  were  Charles  John  Iluff- 
ham.  Ills  father,  at  that  time  a  clerk  in  the  Navy  Pay 
Office,  and  employed  in  the  Portsmouth  Dock-yard,  was 
recalled  to  London  when  his  eldest  son  was  only  two  years 
of  age ;  and  two  years  afterwards  was  transferred  to 
Chatham,  where  he  resided  with  his  family  from  1816  to 
1821.  Thus  Chatham,  and  the  more  venerable  city  of 
Rochester  adjoining,  with  their  neighbourhood  of  chalk 
hills  and  deep  green  lanes  and  woodland  and  marshes,  be- 
came, in  the  words  of  Dickens's  biographer,  the  birthplace 
of  his  fancy.  He  looked  upon  himself  as,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  a  Kentish  man  born  and  bred,  and  his  heart 
was  always  in  this  particular  corner  of  the  incomparable 
c6unty.  Again  and  again,  after  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle's  spas- 
modic eloquence  had,  in  the  very  first  number  of  Pickwick^ 
'     1* 


2  DICKENS.      •  [ciiAP. 

epitomised  the  antiquities  and  comforts  of  Rochester,  al- 
ready the  scene  of  one  of  the  Sketches,  Dickens  returned 
to  the  local  associations  of  his  early  childhood.  It  was  at 
Chatham  that  poor  little  David  Copperfield,  on  his  solitary 
tramp  to  Dover,  slept  his  Sunday  night's  sleep  "near  a 
cannon,  happy  in  the  society  of  the  sentry's  footsteps ;" 
and  in  many  a  Christmas  narrative  or  uncommercial  etch- 
ing the  familiar  features  of  town  and  country,  of  road  and 
river,  were  reproduced,  before  in  Great  Expectations  they 
suggested  some  of  the  most  picturesque  effects  of  his 
later  art,  and  before  in  his  last  unfinished  romance  his 
faithful  fancy  once  more  haunted  the  well-known  pre- 
cincts. During  the  last  thirteen  years  of  his  life  he  was 
again  an  inhabitant  of  the  loved  neighbourhood  where, 
with  the  companions  of  his  mirthful  idleness,  he  had  so 
often  made  holiday ;  where,  when  hope  was  young,  he 
had  spent  his  honey-moon ;  and  whither,  after  his  last  rest- 
less wanderings,  he  was  to  return,  to  seek  such  repose  as 
he  would  allow  himself,  and  to  die.  But,  of  course,  the 
daily  life  of  the  "  very  queer  small  boy "  of  that  early 
time  is  only  quite  incidentally  to  bo  associated  with  the 
grand  gentleman's  house  on  Gad's  Hill,  where  his  father, 
little  thinking  that  his  son  was  to  act  over  again  the  story 
of  Warren  Hastings  and  Daylesford,  had  told  liim  he 
might  some  day  come  to  live,  if  he  were  to  be  very  perse- 
vering, and  to  work  hard.  The  family  abode  was  in 
Ordnance  (not  St.  Mary's)  Place,  at  Chatham,  amidst  sur- 
roundings classified  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  notes  as  "  appear- 
ing to  be  soldiers,  sailors,  Jews,  chalk,  shrimps,  offices,  and 
dock-yard  men."  But  though  the  half-mean,  half-pictu- 
resque aspect  of  the  Chatham  streets  may  already  at  an 
early  age  have  had  its  fascination  for  Dickens,  yet  his 
childish  fancy  was  fed  as  fully  as  were  his  powders  of  ob- 


I.]  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  3 

servation.  Having  learned  reading  from  his  mother,  he 
was  sent  with  his  elder  sister,  Fanny,  to  a  day-school  kept 
in  Gibraltar  Place,  New  Road,  by  Mr.  William  Giles,  the 
eldest  son  and  namesake  of  a  worthy  Baptist  minister, 
whose  family  had  formed  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
their  neighbours  in  Ordnance  Row.  The  younger  Giles 
children  were  pupils  at  the  school  of  their  elder  brother 
with  Charles  and  Fanny  Dickens,  and  thus  naturally  their 
constant  playmates.  In  later  life  Dickens  preserved  a 
grateful  remembrance,  at  times  refreshed  by  pleasant  com- 
munications between  the  families,  of  the  training  he  had 
received  from  Mr.  William  Giles,  an  intelligent  as  well  as 
generous  man,  who,  recognising  his  pupil's  abilities,  seems 
to  have  resolved  that  they  should  not  lie  fallow  for  want 
of  early  cultivation.  Nor  does  there  appear  to  be  the 
slightest  reason  for  supposing  that  this  period  of  his  life 
was  anything  but  happy.  For  his  sister  Fanny  he  always 
preserved  a  tender  regard ;  and  a  touching  little  paper, 
wi'itten  by  him  after  her  death  in  womanhood,  relates  how 
the  two  children  used  to  watch  the  stars  together,  and 
make  friends  with  one  in  particular,  as  belonging  to  them- 
selves. But  obviously  he  did  not  lack  playmates  of  his 
own  sex ;  and  it  was  no  doubt  chiefly  because  his  tastes 
made  him  disinclined  to  take  much  part  in  the  rougher 
sports  of  his  school-fellows,  that  he  found  plenty  of  time 
for  amusing  himself  in  his  own  way.  And  thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  already  as  a  child  he  followed  his  own  likings 
in  the  two  directions  from  which  they  were  never  very 
materially  to  swerve.  He  once  said  of  himself  that  he 
had  been  "  a  writer  when  a  mere  baby,  an  actor  always." 

Of  these  two  passions  he  could  always,  as  a  child  and 
as  a  man,  be  "  happy  with  either,"  and  occasionally  with 
both  at  the  same  time.     In  his  tender  years  he  was  taken 


4  DICKENS.  [chap. 

by  a  kinsman,  a  Sandhurst  cadet,  to  the  theatre,  to  see  the 
legitimate  drama  acted,  and  was  disillusioned  by  visits  be- 
hind the  scenes  at  private  theatricals;  while  his  own  ju- 
venile powers  as  a  teller  of  stories  and  singer  of  comic 
songs  (he  was  possessed,  says  one  who  remembers  him,  of 
a  sweet  treble  voice)  were  displayed  on  domestic  chairs 
and  tables,  and  then  in  amateur  plays  with  his  school-fel- 
lows. He  also  wrote  a — not  strictly  original — tragedy, 
which  is  missing  among  his  Reprinted  Pieces.  There  is 
nothing  unique  in  these  childish  doings,  nor  in  the  cir- 
cumstance that  he  was  an  eager  reader  of  works  of  fic- 
tion ;  but  it  is  noteworthy  that  chief  among  the  boohs  to 
which  he  applied  himself,  in  a  small  neglected  bookroom 
in  his  father's  house,  were  those  to  which  his  allegiance 
remained  true  through  much  of  his  career  as  an  author. 
Besides  books  of  travel,  which  he  says  had  a  fascination 
for  his  mind  from  his  earliest  childhood,  besides  the  "Ara- 
bian Nights"  and  kindred  tales,  and  the  English  Essayists, 
he  read  Fielding  and  Smollett,  and  Cervantes  and  Lc  Sage, 
in  all  innocence  of  heart,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Inchbald's  collec- 
tion of  farces,  in  all  contentment  of  spirit.  Inasmuch  as 
he  was  no  great  reader  in  the  days  of  his  authorship,  and 
had  to  go  through  hard  times  of  his  own  before,  it  was 
well  that  the  literature  of  his  childhood  was  good  of  its 
kind,  and  that  where  it  was  not  good  it  was  at  least  gay. 
Dickens  afterwards  made  it  an  article  of  his  social  creed 
that  the  imagination  of  the  young  needs  nourishment  as 
much  as  their  bodies  require  food  and  clothing ;  and  he 
had  reason  for  gratefully  remembering  that  at  all  events 
the  imaginative  part  of  his  education  had  escaped  neglect. 
But  these  pleasant  early  days  came  to  a  sudden  end. 
In  the  year  1821  his  family  returned  to  London,  and  soon 
his  experiences  of  trouble  began.     Misfortune  pursued  the 


I.]  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  5 

elder  Dickens  to  town,  Lis  salary  Laving  been  decreased 
already  at  CLatLam  in  consequence  of  one  of  tLe  early 
efforts  at  economical  reform.  He  found  a  sLabby  Lome 
for  Lis  family  in  Bayliam  Street,  Camden  Town  ;  and  Lere, 
TN'Lat  -svitL  tlie  pecuniary  embarrassments  in  AvLicL  Le  was 
perennially  involved,  and  wLat  witli  tLe  easy  disposition 
witL  wLicL  Le  Avas  blessed  by  'way  of  compensation,  Le 
allowed  Lis  son's  education  to  take  care  of  itself.  JoLn 
Dickens  appears  to  Lave  been  an  Lonourable  as  well  as  a 
kindly  man.  His  son  always  entertained  an  affectionate 
regard  for  Lira,  and  carefully  arranged  for  tLe  comfort  of 
Lis  latter  years ;  nor  would  it  be  fair,  because  of  a  similar- 
ity in  tLeir  experiences,  and  in  tLe  grandeur  of  tLeir  Labit- 
ual  pLraseology,  to  identify  Lim  absolutely  witL  tLe  im- 
mortal Mr.  Micawber,  Still  less,  except  in  certain  details 
of  manner  and  incident,  can  tLe  cLaracter  of  tLe  elder 
Dickens  be  tbouglit  to  Lave  suggested  tLat  of  tLe  pitiful 
"  Fatlier  of  tLe  MarsLalsea,"  to  wLicL  prison,  almost  as 
famous  in  EnglisL  fiction  as  it  is  in  EnglisL  Listory,  tlie 
unlucky  navy-clerk  was  consigned  a  year  after  Lis  return 
to  London. 

Every  effort  Lad  been  made  to  stave  off  tLe  evil  day ; 
and  little  CLarles,  wLose  eyes  were  always  wide  open,  and 
wLo  Lad  begun  to  write  descriptive  sketcLes  of  odd  per- 
sonages among  Lis  acquaintance.  Lad  become  familiar  witli 
tLe  inside  of  a  pawnbroker's  sLop,  and  Lad  sold  tLe  pa- 
ternal "  library  "  piecemeal  to  tLe  original  of  tLe  drunken 
second -Land  bookseller,  witL  wLom  David  Copperfield 
dealt  as  Mr.  Micawber's  representative.  But  neitLer  tLese 
sacrifices  nor  Mrs.  Dickens's  abortive  efforts  at  setting  up 
an  educational  establisLment  Lad  been  of  avail.  Her  Lus- 
band's  creditors  icould  not  give  liim  time ;  and  a  dark 
period  began  for  tLe  family,  and  more   especially  for  tLe 


6  DICKENS.  [chap. 

little  eldest  son,  now  ten  years  old,  in  which,  as  he  after- 
wards wrote,  in  bitter  anguish  of  remembrance,  "  but  for 
the  mercy  of  God,  he  might  easily  have  become,  for  any 
care  that  was  taken  of  him,  a  little  robber  or  a  little 
vagabond." 

Forster  has  printed  the  pathetic  fragment  of  autobiog- 
raphy, communicated  to  him  by  Dickens  five-and-twenty 
years  after  the  period  to  which  it  refers,  and  subsequent- 
ly incorporated  with  but  few  changes  in  the  Personal  His- 
tory of  David  Copperfield.  "Who  can  forget  the  thrill  with 
which  he  first  learned  the  well-kept  secret  that  the  story  of 
the  solitary  child,  left  a  prey  to  the  cruel  chances  of  the 
London  streets,  was  an  episode  in  the  life  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens himself?  Between  fact  and  fiction  there  was  but  a 
difi^erence  of  names.  Murdstone  k,  Grinby's  wine  ware- 
house down  in  Blackfriars  was  Jonathan  AVarren's  black- 
ing warehouse  at  Hungerford  Stairs,  in  which  a  place  had 
been  found  for  the  boy  by  a  relative,  a  partner  in  the  con- 
cern ;  and  the  bottles  he  had  to  paste  over  with  labels 
were  in  truth  blacking-pots.  But  the  menial  work  and 
the  miserable  pay,  the  uncongenial  companionship  during 
worktime,  and  the  speculative  devices  of  the  dinner-hour 
were  the  same  in  each  case.  At  this  time,  after  his  fam- 
ily had  settled  itself  in  the  Marshalsca,  the  haven  open  to 
the  little  waif  at  night  was  a  lodging  in  Little  College 
Street,  Camden  Town,  presenting  even  fewer  attractions 
than  Mr.  Micawber's  residence  in  Windsor  Terrace,  and 
kept  by  a  lady  afterwards  famous  under  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  His  Sundays  were  spent  at  home  in  the  prison. 
On  his  urgent  remonstrance — "the  first  I  had  ever  made 
about  my  lot" — concerning  the  distance  from  his  family 
at  which  he  was  left  through  the  week,  a  back  attic  was 
found  for  him   in  Lant  Street,  in   the  Borough,  "  where 


I.]  BEFORE    'PICKWICK."  7 

Bob  Sawyer  lodged  many  years  afterwards ;"  and  he  now 
breakfasted  and  supped  with  his  parents  in  their  apart- 
ment. Here  they  lived  in  fair  comfort,  waited  upon  by 
a,  faithful  "  orfling,"  who  had  accompanied  the  family  and 
its  fortunes  from  Chatham,  and  who  is  said  by  Forster 
to  have  her  part  in  the  character  of  the  Marchioness. 
Finally,  after  the  prisoner  had  obtained  his  discharge, 
and  had  removed  with  his  family  to  the  Lant  Street  lodg- 
ings, a  quarrel  occurred  between  the  elder  Dickens  and 
his  cousin,  and  the  boy  was  in  consequence  taken  away 
from  the  business. 

He  had  not  been  ill-treated  there ;  nor  indeed  is  it  ill- 
treatment  which  leads  to  David  Copperfield's  running 
away  in  the  story.  Nevertheless,  it  is  not  strange  that 
Dickens  should  have  looked  back  with  a  bitterness  very 
unusual  in  him  upon  the  bad  old  days  of  his  childish  soli- 
tude and  degradation.  He  never  "forgot"  his  mother's 
having  wished  him  to  remain  in  the  warehouse ;  the  sub- 
ject of  his  employment  there  was  never  afterwards  men- 
tioned in  the  family ;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  go 
near  old  Hungerford  Market  so  long  as  it  remained  stand- 
ing; and  to  no  human  being,  not  even  to  his  wife,  did  he 
speak  of  this  passage  in  his  life  until  he  narrated  it  in  the 
fragment  of  autobiography  which  he  confided  to  his  trusty 
friend.  Such  a  sensitiveness  is  not  hard  to  explain ;  for 
no  man  is  expected  to  dilate  upon  the  days  "  when  he 
lived  among  the  beggars  in  St.  Mary  Axe,"  and  it  is  only 
the  Bounderbies  of  society  who  exult,  truly  or  falsely,  in 
the  sordid  memories  of  the  time  before  they  became  rich 
or  powerful.  And  if  the  sharp  experiences  of  his  child- 
hood might  have  ceased  to  be  resented  by  one  whom  the 
world  on  the  whole  treated  so  kindly,  at  least  they  left  his 
heart  unhardened,  and  helped  to  make  him  ever  tender  to 


8  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

the  poor  and  weak,  because  he  too  had  after  a  fashion 
"  eaten  his  bread  with  tears  "  when  a  puny  child. 

A  happy  accident  having  released  the  David  Copper- 
field  of  actual  life  from  his  unworthy  bondage,  he  was  put 
in  the  way  of  an  education  such  as  at  that  time  was  the 
lot  of  most  boys  of  the  class  to  w^hich  he  belonged.  "  The 
w^orld  has  done  much  better  since  in  that  way,  and  will 
do  far  better  yet,"  he  writes  at  the  close  of  his  descrip- 
tion of  Our  School,  the  Wellington  llouse  Academy,"  sit- 
uate near  that  point  in  the  llampstead  Road  where  modest 
gentility  and  commercial  enterprise  touch  hands.  Other 
testimony  confirms  his  slcetch  of  the  ignorant  and  brutal 
head-master;  and  doubtless  this  worthy  and  his  usher, 
"considered  to  know  everything  as  opposed  to  the  chief 
who  was  considered  to  know  nothing,"  furnished  some  of 
the  features  in  the  portraits  of  Mr.  Creakle  and  Mr.  Mell. 
But  it  has  been  very  justly  doubted  by  an  old  school- 
fellow whether  the  statement  "  We  were  First  Boy "  is 
to  be  regarded  as  strictly  historical.  If  Charles  Dickens, 
when  he  entered  the  school,  was  "  put  into  Virgil,"  he  was 
not  put  there  to  much  purpose.  On  the  other  hand,  with 
the  return  of  happier  days  had  come  the  resumption  of 
the  old  amusements  which  were  to  grow  into  the  occu- 
pations of  his  life.  A  club  was  founded  among  the 
boys  at  AYelHngton  House  for  the  express  purpose  of 
circulating  short  tales  w^ritten  by  hinj,  and  he  was  the 
manager  of  the  private  theatricals  which  they  contrived 
to  set  on  foot. 

After  two  or  three  years  of  such  w^ork  and  play  it 
became  necessary  for  Charles  Dickens  once  more  to  think 
of  earning  his  bread.  His  father,  who  had  probably  lost 
his  official  post  at  the  time  when,  in  Mr.  Micawber's  phrase, 
"  hope  sunk  beneath  the  horizon,"  was  now  seeking  cm- 


I.]  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  9 

ployment  as  a  jjailiamentaiy  reporter,  and  must  Lave  re- 
joiced when  a  Gray's  Inn  solicitor  of  his  acquaintance, 
attracted  by  the  bright,  clever  looks  of  his  son,  took  the 
lad  into  his  office  as  a  clerk  at  a  modest  weekly  salary. 
His  office  associates  here  were  perhaps  a  grade  or  two 
above  those  of  the  blacking  warehouse ;  but  his  danger 
now  lay  rather  in  the  direction  of  the  vulgarity  wdiich  he 
afterwards  depicted  in  such  samples  of  the  profession  as 
Mr.  Guppy  and  Mr.  Jobling.  He  is  said  to  have  frequent- 
ed, in  company  with  a  fellow-clerk,  one  of  the  minor  thea- 
tres, and  even  occasionally  to  have  acted  there ;  and  assur- 
edly it  must  have  been  personal  knowledge  which  suggest- 
ed the  curiously  savage  description  of  Private  Theatres  in 
the  Sketches  by  Boz^  the  all  but  solitary  unkindly  refer- 
ence to  theatrical  amusements  in  his  works.  But  what- 
ever his  experiences  of  this  kind  may  have  been,  he  passed 
unscathed  through  them ;  and  during  the  year  and  a  half 
of  his  clerkship  picked  up  sufficient  knowledge  of  the 
technicalities  of  the  law  to  be  able  to  assail  its  enormities 
without  falling  into  rudimentary  errors  about  it,  and  suffi- 
cient knowledge  of  lawyers  and  lawyers'  men  to  fill  a 
whole  chamber  in  his  gallery  of  characters. 

Oddly  enough,  it  was,  after  all,  the  example  of  the  father 
that  led  the  son  into  the  line  of  life  from  which  he  was 
easily  to  pass  into  the  career  where  success  and  fame 
awaited  him.  The  elder  Dickens  having  obtained  employ- 
ment as  a  parliamentary  reporter  for  the  Morning  Herald, 
his  son,  who  was  living  with  him  in  Bentinck  Street,  Man- 
chester Square,  resolved  to  essay  the  same  laborious  craft. 
He  was  by  this  time  nearly  seventeen  years  of  age,  and 
already  we  notice  in  him  what  were  to  remain,  through 
life,  two  of  his  most  marked  characteristics — strength  of 
will,  and  a  determination,  if  he  did  a  thing  at  all,  to  do  it 


10  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

thorouglily.  The  art  of  short-hand,  which  he  now  resolute- 
ly set  himself  to  master,  was  in  those  days  no  easy  study, 
though,  possibly,  in  looking  back  upon  his  first  efforts, 
David  Copperfield  overestimated  the  difficulties  which  he 
had  conquered  with  the  help  of  love  and  Traddles.  But 
Dickens,  whose  education  no  Dr.  Strong  had  completed, 
perceived  that  in  order  to  succeed  as  a  reporter  of  the 
highest  class  he  needed  something  besides  the  knowledge 
of  short-hand.  In  a  word,  he  lacked  reading;  and  this 
deficiency  he  set  himself  to  supply  as  best  he  could  by  a 
constant  attendance  at  the  British  Museum.  Those  critics 
who  have  dwelt  on  the  fact  that  the  reading  of  Dickens 
was  neither  very  great  nor  very  extensive,  have  insisted  on 
what  is  not  less  true  than  obvious ;  but  he  had  this  one 
quality  of  the  true  lover  of  reading,  that  he  never  profess- 
ed a  familiarity  with  that  of  which  he  knew  little  or  noth- 
ing. He  continued  his  visits  to  the  Museum,  even  when 
in  1828  he  had  become  a  reporter  in  Doctors'  Commons. 
With  this  occupation  he  had  to  remain  as  content  as  he 
could  for  nearly  two  years.  Once  more  David  Copper- 
field,  the  double  of  Charles  Dickens  in  his  youth,  will  rise 
to  the  memory  of  every  one  of  his  readers.  For  not  only 
was  his  soul  seized  with  a  weariness  of  Consistory,  Arches, 
Delegates,  and  the  rest  of  it,  to  which  he  afterwards  gave 
elaborate  expression  in  his  story,  but  his  heart  was  full  of 
its  first  love.  In  later  days  he  was  not  of  opinion  that 
he  had  loved  particularly  wisely ;  but  how  well  he  had 
loved  is  known  to  every  one  who  after  him  has  lost  his 
heart  to  Dora.  Nothing  came  of  the  fancy,  and  in  course 
of  time  he  had  composure  enough  to  visit  the  lady  who 
had  been  its  object  in  the  company  of  his  wife.  He  found 
that  Jip  was  stuffed  as  well  as  dead,  and  that  Dora  had 
faded  into  Flora ;  for  it  was  as  such  that,  not  very  chival- 


'  I.]  BEFORE  ''PICKWICK."  U 

rously,  lie  could  bring  liimself  to    describe   her,  for  the 
second  time,  in  Little  Dorrit. 

Before  at  last  he  was  engaged  as  a  reporter  on  a  news- 
paper, he  had,  and  not  for  a  moment  only,  thought  of 
turning  aside  to  another  profession.  It  was  the  profes- 
sion to  which — uncommercially — he  was  attached  during 
so  great  a  part  of  his  life,  that  when  he  afterwards  created 
for  himself  a  stage  of  his  own,  he  seemed  to  be  but  follow- 
ing an  irresistible  fascination.  His  best  friend  described 
him  to  me  as  "  a  born  actor ;"  and  who  needs  to  be  told 
that  the  world  falls  into  two  divisions  only — those  whose 
place  is  before  the  foot-lights,  and  those  whose  place  is  be- 
hind them  ? '  Ilis  love  of  acting  was  stronger  than  him- 
self;  and  I  doubt  whether  he  ever  saw  a  play  successfully 
performed  without  longing  to  be  in  and  of  it.  "Assump- 
tion," he  wrote  in  after  days  to  Lord  Lytton,  "  has  charms 
for  me — I  hardly  know  for  how  many  wild  reasons — so 
delightful  that  I  feel  a  loss  of,  oh !  I  can't  say  what  ex- 
quisite foolery,  when  I  lose  a  chance  of  being  some  one  in 
voice,  etc.,  not  at  all  like  myself."  He  loved  the  theatre 
and  everything  which  savoured  of  histrionics  with  an  in- 
tensity not  even  to  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  never 
felt  a  touch  of  the  same  passion.  He  had  that  "  belief  in 
■  a  play "  which  he  so  pleasantly  described  as  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  his  life-long  friend,  the  great  painter, 
Clarkson  Stanfield.  And  he  had  that  unextinguishable 
interest  in  both  actors  and  acting  which  makes  a  little 
separate  world  of  the  "quality."  One  of  the  staunchest 
friendships  of  his  life  was  that  with  the  foremost  English 
tragedian  of  his  age,  Macready ;  one  of  the  delights  of  his 
last  years  was  his  intimacy  with  another  well-known  actor, 
the  late  Mr.  Fechter.  No  performer,  however,  was  so  ob- 
scure or  so  feeble  as  to  be  outside  the  pale  of  his  sympa- 


12  DICKENS.  [chap. 

thy.  His  books  teem  with  kindly  likenesses  of  all  man- 
ner of  entertainers  and  entertainments — from  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies  and  the  more  or  less  legitimate  drama,  down  to 
Mr.  Sleary's  horse-riding  and  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax-work.  He 
has  a  friendly  feeling  for  Chops  the  dwarf,  and  for  Pickle- 
son  the  giant ;  and  in  his  own  quiet  Broadstairs  he  cannot 
help  tumultuously  applauding  a  young  lady  "  who  goes 
into  the  den  of  ferocious  lions,  tigers,  leopards,  etc.,  and 
pretends  to  go  to  sleep  upon  the  principal  lion,  upon 
which  a  rustic  keeper,  who  speaks  through  his  nose,  ex- 
claims, 'Behold  the  abazid  power  of  woobad!'"  He  was 
unable  to  sit  through  a  forlorn  performance  at  a  wretched 
country  theatre  without  longing  to  add  a  sovereign  to  the 
four-and-ninepence  which  he  had  made  out  in  the  house 
when  he  entered,  and  which  "  had  warmed  up  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  to  twelve  shillings;"  and  in  Bow 
Street,  near  his  ofBce,  he  was  beset  by  appeals  such  as  that 
of  an  aged  and  greasy  suitor  for  an  engagement  as  I'anta- 
loon  :  "  Mr.  Dickens,  you  know  our  profession,  sir — no  one 
knows  it  better,  sir — there  is  no  right  feeling  in  it.  I  was 
Harlequin  on  your  own  circuit,  sir,  for  five -and -thirty 
years,  and  was  displaced  by  a  boy,  sir  ! — a  boy !"  Nor  did 
his  disposition  change  when  he  crossed  the  seas ;  the 
streets  he  first  sees  in  the  United  States  remind  him  irre- 
sistibly of  the  set-scene  in  a  London  pantomime ;  and  at 
Verona  his  interest  is  divided  between  Romeo  and  Juliet 
and  the  vestiges  of  an  equestrian  troupe  in  the  amphi- 
theatre. 

What  success  Dickens  might  have  achieved  as  an  actor 
it  is  hardly  to  the  present  purpose  to  inquire.  A  word 
will  be  said  below  of  the  success  he  achieved  as  an  ama- 
teur actor  and  manager,  and  in  his  more  than  half- dra- 
matic readings.     But,  the  influence  of  early  associations 


I.J  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  13 

and  personal  feelings  apart,  it  would  seem  that  the  artists 
of  the  stage  ^Yllom  he  most  admired  were  not  those  of  the 
highest  type.  He  was  subdued  by  the  genius  of  Frederic 
Lcraaitre,  but  blind  and  deaf  to  that  of  Ristori.  "  Sound 
melodrama  and  farce"  were  the  dramatic  species  which 
he  affected,  and  in  which  as  a  professional  actor  he  might 
have  excelled.  His  intensity  might  have  gone  for  much 
in  the  one,  and  his  versatility  and  volubility  for  more  in 
the  other ;  and  in  both,  as  indeed  in  any  kind  of  play  or 
part,  his  thoroughness,  which  extended  itself  to  every  de- 
tail of  performance  or  make-up,  must  have  stood  him  in 
excellent  stead.  As  it  was,  he  was  preserved  for  litera- 
ture. But  he  had  carefully  prepared  himself  for  his  in- 
tended venture,  and  when  he  sought  an  engagement  at 
Covent  Garden,  a  preliminary  interview  with  the  manager 
was  postponed  only  on  account  of  the  illness  of  the  ap- 
plicant. 

Before  the  next  theatrical  season  opened  he  had  at  last 
— in  the  year  1831  —  obtained  employment  as  a  parlia- 
mentary reporter,  and  after  some  earlier  engagements  he 
became,  in  1834,  one  of  the  reporting  staff  of  the  famous 
Whig  Morning  Chronicle,  then  in  its  best  days  under  the 
editorship  of  Mr.  John  Black.  Now,  for  the  first  time  in' 
his  life,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  putting  forth  the  en- 
ergy that  was  in  him.  He  shrunk  from  none  of  the  diffi- 
culties which  in  those  days  attended  the  exercise  of  his 
craft.  They  were  thus  depicted  by  himself,  when  a  few 
years  before  his  death  he  "held  a  brief  for  his  brothers" 
at  the  dinner  of  the  Newspaper  Press  Fund :  "  I  have  of- 
ten transcribed  for  the  printer  from  my  short-hand  notes 
important  public  speeches  in  which  the  strictest  accuracy 
was  required,  and  a  mistake  in  which  would  have  been  to 
a  young  man  severely  compromising;  writing  on  the  palm 


14  DICKENS.  [chap. 

of  my  hand,  by  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern,  in  a  post- 
chaise  and  four,  galloping  through  a  Avild  country,  and 
throngli  the  dead  of  the  night,  at  the  then  surprising  rate 
of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  ...  I  have  worn  my  knees  by 
writing  on  them  on  the  old  back  row  of  the  old  gallery  of 
the  old  House  of  Commons ;  and  I  have  worn  ray  feet  by 
standing  to  write  in  a  preposterous  pen  in  the  old  House 
of  Lords,  where  w^e  used  to  be  huddled  together  like  so 
many  sheep  kept  in  waiting,  say,  until  the  woolsack  might 
want  restuffing.  Returning  home  from  excited  political 
meetings  in  the  country  to  the  waiting  press  in  London,  I 
do  verily  believ^e  I  have  been  upset  in  almost  every  de- 
scription of  vehicle  known  in  this  country.  I  have  been 
in  my  time  belated  on  miry  by-roads,  towards  the  small 
hours,  forty  or  fifty  miles  from  London,  in  a  wheelless  car- 
riage, with  exhausted  horses  and  drunken  post-boys,  and 
have  got  back  in  time  for  publication,  to  be  received  with 
never-forgotten  compliments  by  the  late  Mr.  Black,  coming 
in  the  broadest  of  Scotch  from  the  broadest  of  hearts  I 
ever  knew."  Thus  early  had  Dickens  learnt  the  secret  of 
throwing  himself  into  any  pursuit  once  taken  up  by  him, 
and  of  half  achieving  his  task  by  the  very  heartiness  with 
whicli  he  set  about  it.  When  at  the  close  of  the  parlia- 
mentary session  of  the  year  1836  his  labours  as  a  reporter 
came  to  an  end,  he  was  held  to  have  no  equal  in  the  gal- 
lery. During  this  period  his  naturally  keen  powers  of  ob- 
servation must  have  been  sharpened  and  strengthened,  and 
that  quickness  of  decision  acquired  which  constitutes,  per- 
haps, the  most  valuable  lesson  that  journalistic  practice  of 
any  kind  can  teach  to  a  young  man  of  letters.  To  Dick- 
ens's experience  as  a  reporter  may  likewise  be  traced  no 
small  part  of  his  political  creed,  in  whicli  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  infidelity;   or,  at  all   events,  his  determined  con- 


I.]  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  15 

tempt  for  the  parliamentary  style  proper,  whether  in  the 
month  of  "Thisman"  or  of  "Thatman,"  and  his  rooted 
dislike  of  the  "  cheap-jacks "  and  "  national  dustmen " 
whom  he  discerned  among  our  orators  and  legislators. 
There  is  probably  no  very  great  number  of  Members  of 
Parliament  who  are  heroes  to  those  who  wait  attendance 
on  their  words.  Moreover,  the  period  of  Dickens's  most 
active  labours  as  a  reporter  was  one  that  succeeded  a  time 
of  great  political  excitement ;  and  when  men  wish  thank- 
fully to  rest  after  deeds,  words  are  in  season. 

Meanwhile,  very  tentatively  and  with  a  very  imperfect 
consciousness  of  the  significance  for  himself  of  his  first 
steps  on  a  slippery  path,  Dickens  had  begun  the  real 
career  of  his  life.  It  has  been  seen  how  he  had  been  a 
writer  as  a  "  baby,"  as  a  school-boy,  and  as  a  lawyer's 
clerk,  and  the  time  had  come  when,  like  all  writers,  he 
wished  to  see  himself  in  print.  In  December,,  1833,  the 
Monthly  Magazine  published  a  paper  which  he  had  drop- 
ped into  its  letter-box,  and  with  eyes  "  dimmed  with  joy 
and  pride  "  the  young  author  beheld  his  first-born  in  print. 
The  paper,  called  A  Dinner  at  Poplar  Walk,  was  after- 
wards reprinted  in  the  Sketches  by  Boz  under  the  title  of 
Mr.  Minns  and  his  Cousin,  and  is  laughable  enough.  His 
success  emboldened  him  to  send  further  papers  of  a  simi- 
lar character  to  the  same  magazine,  which  published  ten 
contributions  of  his  by  February,  1835.  That  which  ap- 
peared in  August,  1834,  was  the  first  signed  "Boz,"  a 
nickname  given  by  him  in  his  boyhood  to  a  favourite 
brother.  Since  Dickens  used  this  signature  not  only  as 
the  author  of  the  Sketches  and  a  few  other  minor  produc- 
tions, but  also  as  "editor"  of  the  Pickwick  Pa2)ers,  it  is 
not  surprising  that,  especially  among  his  admirers  on  the 
Continent  and  in  America,  the  name  should  have  cluno-  to 


16  DICKENS.  [chap. 

him  so  tenaciously.  It  was  on  a  steamboat  near  Niagara 
that  he  heard  from  his  state-room  a  gentleman  complain- 
ing to  his  wife  :  "  Boz  keeps  himself  very  close." 

But  the  Monthly  Magazine,  though  warmly  welcoming 
its  young  contributor's  lively  sketches,  could  not  afford 
to  pay  for  them.  lie  was  therefore  glad  to  conclude  an 
arrangement  with  Mr.  George  Hogarth,  the  conductor  of 
the  Evening  Chronicle,  a  paper  in  connexion  with  the 
great  morning  journal  on  the  reporting  staff  of  which  he 
was  engaged.  He  had  gratuitously  contributed  a  sketch 
to  the  evening  paper  as  a  personal  favour  to  Mr.  Hogarth, 
and  the  latter  readily  proposed  to  the  proprietors  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle  that  Dickens  should  be  duly  remu- 
nerated for  this  addition  to  his  regular  labours.  With 
a  salary  of  seven  instead  of,  as  heretofore,  five  guineas 
a  week,  and  settled  in  chambers  in  Furnival's  Inn — one 
of  those  old  legal  inns  which  he  loved  so  well — he  mioht 
already  in  this  year,  1835,  consider  himself  on  the  high- 
road to  prosperity.  By  the  beginning  of  183G  the 
Sketches  hy  Boz  printed  in  the  Evening  Chronicle  were 
already  numerous  enough,  and  their  success  was  sufficient- 
ly established  to  allow  of  his  arranging  for  their  republi- 
cation. They  appeared  in  two  volumes,  with  etchings  by 
Cruikshank,  and  the  sum  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
was  paid  to  him  for  the  copyright.  The  stepping-stones 
had  been  found  and  passed,  and  on  the  last  day  of  March, 
which  saw  the  publication  of  the  first  number  of  the  PicJc- 
w'lck  Papers,  he  stood  in  the  field  of  fame  and  fortune. 
Three  days  afterwards  Dickens  married  Catherine  Ho- 
garth, the  eldest  daughter  of  the  friend  who  had  so  efl[i- 
ciently  aided  him  in  his  early  literary  ventures.  Mr. 
George  Hogarth's  name  thus  links  together  the  names  of 
two  masters  of  English  fiction ;    for  Lockhart  speaks  of 


I.]  BEFORE  "PICKWICK."  17 

liim  when  a  writer  to  the  signet  in  Edinburgh  as  one  of 
the  intimate  friends  of  Scott.  Dickens's  apprenticeship  as 
an  author  was  over  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  begun ;  and 
he  had  found  the  way  short  from  obscurity  to  the  daz- 
zling light  of  popularity.  As  for  the  Sketches  by  Boz, 
their  author  soon  repurchased  the  copyright  for  more  than 
thirteen  times  the  sum  which  had  been  paid  to  him  for  it. 
In  their  collected  form  these  Sketches  modestly  de- 
scribed themselves  as  "  illustrative  of  every-day  life  and 
every-day  people."  Herein  they  only  prefigured  the  more 
famous  creations  of  their  writer,  whose  genius  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  lighting  up,  now  the  humorous,  now 
what  he  chose  to  term  the  romantic,  side  of  familiar 
things.  The  curious  will  find  little  difficulty  in  tracing 
in  these  outlines,  often  rough  and  at  times  coarse,  the 
groundwork  of  more  than  one  finished  picture  of  later 
date.  Not  a  few  of  the  most  peculiar  features  of  Dickens's 
humour  are  already  here,  together  with  not  a  little  of  his 
most  characteristic  pathos.  It  is  true  that  in  these  early 
Sketches  the  latter  is  at  times  strained,  but  its  power  is 
occasionally  beyond  denial,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  brief 
narrative  of  the  death  of  the  hospital  patient.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  humour  —  more  especially  that  of  the 
I'ales — is  not  of  the  most  refined  sort,  and  often  degen- 
erates in  the  direction  of  boisterous  farce.  The  style,  too, 
though  in  general  devoid  of  the  pretentiousness  which  is 
the  bane  of  "light"  journalistic  writing,  has  a  taint  of 
vulgarity  about  it,  very  pardonable  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  generally  absent  from  Dickens's  later  works. 
Weak  puns  are  not  unf  requent ;  and  the  diction  but  rarely 
reaches  that  exquisite  felicity  of  comic  phrase  in  which 
Pickwick  and  its  successors  excel.     For  the  rest,  Dickens's 

favourite   passions   and  favourite   aversions   alike   reflect 

2 


18 


DICKENS.  [chap. 


themselves  here  in  small.  In  the  description  of  the  elec- 
tion for  beadle  he  ridicules  the  tricks  and  the  manners 
of  political  party-life,  and  his  love  of  things  theatrical  has 
its  full  freshness  upon  it — however  he  may  pretend  at 
Astley's  that  his  "  histrionic  taste  is  gone,"  and  that  it  is 
the  audience  which  chiefly  delights  him.  But  of  course 
the  gift  which  these  Sketches  pre-eminently  revealed  in 
their  author  was  a  descriptive  power  that  seemed  to  lose 
sight  of  nothing  characteristic  in  the  object  described,  and 
of  nothing  humorous  in  an  association  suggested  by  it. 
Whether  his  theme  was  street  or  river,  a  Christmas  dinner 
or  the  extensive  groves  of  the  illustrious  dead  (the  old 
clothes  shops  in  Monmouth  Street),  he  reproduced  it  in 
all  its  shades  and  colours,  and  under  a  hundred  aspects, 
fanciful  as  well  as  real.  How  inimitable,  for  instance,  is 
the  sketch  of  "  the  last  cab-driver,  and  the  first  omnibus 
cad,"  whose  earlier  vehicle,  the  omnipresent  "red  cab," 
was  not  the  gondola,  but  the  very  fire-ship  of  the  London 
streets. 

Dickens  himself  entertained  no  high  opinion  of  these 
youthful  efforts ;  and  in  this  he  showed  the  consciousness 
of  the  true  artist,  that  masterpieces  are  rarely  thrown  off 
at  hazard.  But  though  much  of  the  popularity  of  the 
Sketches  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  common- 
place people  love  to  read  about  commonplace  people  and 
things,  the  greater  part  of  it  is  due  to  genuine  literary 
merit.  The  days  of  half-price  in  theatres  have  followed 
the  days  of  coaching ;  "  Honest  Tom  "  no  more  paces  the 
lobby  in  a  black  coat  with  velvet  facings  and  cuffs,  and  a 
D'Orsay  hat;  the  Hickses  of  the  present  time  no  longer 
quote  "Don  Juan"  over  boarding-house  dinner -tables; 
and  the  young  ladies  in  Camberwell  no  longer  compare 
young  men  in  attitudes  to  Lord  Byron,  or  to  "Satan" 


BEFORE  "PICKWICK." 


19 


Montgomery.  But  the  Sketches  by  Boz  have  survived 
their  birth-time;  and  they  deserve  to  be  remembered 
among  the  rare  instances  in  which  a  young  author  has  no 
sooner  begun  to  write  than  he  has  shown  a  knowledge  of 
his  real  strength.  As  yet,  however,  this  sudden  favourite 
of  the  public  was  unaware  of  the  range  to  which  his 
powers  were  to  extend,  and  of  the  height  to  which  they 
were  to  mount. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS. 

[1836-1841.] 

Even  in  tliosc  years  of  which  the  record  is  brightest  in 
the  story  of  his  life,  Charles  Dickens,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  had  his  share  of  troubles — troubles  great  and  small, 
losses  which  went  home  to  his  heart,  and  vexations  mani- 
fold in  the  way  of  business.  But  in  the  history  of  his 
early  career  as  an  author  the  word  failure  has  no  place. 

Not  that  the  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Pickwick  Club, 
published  as  they  were  in  monthly  numbers,  at  once  took 
the  town  by  storm  ;  for  the  public  needed  two  or  three 
months  to  make  up  its  mind  that  "  Boz  "  was  equal  to  an 
effort  considerably  in  advance  of  his  Sketches.  But  when 
the  popularity  of  the  serial  was  once  established,  it  grew 
with  extraordinary  rapidity  until  it  reached  an  altogether 
unprecedented  height.  lie  would  be  a  bold  man  who 
should  declare  that  its  popularity  has  very  materially 
diminished  at  the  present  day.  Against  the  productions 
of  Pickwick,  and  of  other  works  of  amusement  of  which 
it  was  the  prototype.  Dr.  Arnold  thought  himself  bound 
seriously  to  contend  among  the  boys  of  Rugby ;  and 
twenty  years  later  young  men  at  the  university  talked 
nothing  but  Pickivick,  and  quoted  nothing  but  Pickwick, 
and  the  wittiest  of  undergraduates  set  the  world  at  large 


CHAP.  II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  21 

an  examination  paper  in  Pichvick,  over  which  pretentious 
half- knowledge  may  puzzle,  unable  accurately  to  "  describe 
the  common  Profeel-machine,"  or  to  furnish  a  satisfactory 
definition  of  "  a  red-faced  Nixon."  No  changes  in  man- 
ners and  customs  have  interfered  with  the  hold  of  the 
work  upon  nearly  all  classes  of  readers  at  home ;  and  no 
translation  has  been  dull  enough  to  prevent  its  being 
relished  even  in  countries  w^here  all  English  manners  and 
customs  must  seem  equally  uninteresting  or  equally  absurb. 
So  extraordinary  has  been  the  popularity  of  this  more 
than  thrice  fortunate  book,  that  the  wildest  legends  have 
grown  up  as  to  the  history  of  its  origin.  The  facts,  how- 
ever, as  stated  by  Dickens  himself,  are  few  and  plain.  At- 
tracted by  the  success  of  the  Sketches,  Messrs.  Chapman  & 
Ilall  proposed  to  him  that  he  should  write  "something" 
in  monthly  numbers  to  serve  as  a  vehicle  for  certain 
plates  to  be  executed  by  the  comic  draughtsman,  Mr.  R. 
Seymour ;  and  either  the  publishers  or  the  artist  suggest- 
ed as  a  kind  of  leading  notion,  the  idea  of  a  "Nimrod 
Club"  of  unlucky  sportsmen.  The  proposition  was  at 
Dickens's  suggestion  so  modified  that  the  plates  were  "  to 
arise  naturally  out  of  the  text,"  the  range  of  the  latter  be- 
ing left  open  to  him.  This  explains  why  the  rather  artificial 
machinery  of  a  club  was  maintained,  and  why  Mr.  Winkle's 
misfortunes  by  flood  and  field  hold  their  place  by  the  side 
of  the  philanthropical  meanderings  of  Mr.  Pickwick  and\^ 
the  amorous  experiences  of  Mr.  Tupman.  An  original ' 
was  speedily  found  for  the  pictorial  presentment  of  the 
hero  of  the  book,  and  a  felicitous  name  for  him  soon  sug- 
gested itself.  Only  a  single  number  of  the  serial  had  ap- 
peared when  Mr.  Seymour's  own  hand  put  an  end  to  his 
life.  It  is  well  known  that  among  the  applicants  for  the 
vacant  ofiice  of  illustrator  of  the  Pickioich  Fcqwrs  was 


22  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

Thackeray  —  the  senior  of  Dickens  by  a  few  months  — 
whose  style  as  a  draughtsman  would  have  been  singularly 
unsuited  to  the  adventures  and  the  gaiters  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. Finally,  in  no  altogether  propitious  hour  for  some 
of  Dickens's  books,  Mr.  Hablot  Browne  ("  Phiz ")  was 
chosen  as  illustrator.  Some  happy  hits — such  as  the  fig- 
ure of  Mr.  Micawber — apart,  the  illustrations  of  Dickens 
by  this  artist,  though  often  both  imaginative  and  eJBEective, 
are  apt,  on  the  one  hand,  to  obscure  the  author's  fidelity  to 
nature,  and  on  the  other,  to  intensify  his  unreality.  Oliver 
Twisty  like  the  Sketches,  was  illustrated  by  George  Cruik- 
shank,  a  pencil  humourist  of  no  common  calibre,  but  as  a 
rule  ugly  with  the  whole  virtuous  intention  of  his  heart. 
Dickens  himself  was  never  so  well  satisfied  with  any  illus- 
trator as  with  George  Cattermole  {alias  "Kittenmoles"),  a 
connection  of  his  by  marriage,  who  co-operated  with  Hab- 
lot Browne  in  Master  Humphrey's  Clock ;  in  his  latest 
works  he  resorted  to  the  aid  of  younger  artists,  whose 
reputation  has  since  justified  his  confidence.  The  most 
congenial  of  the  pictorial  interpreters  of  Dickens,  in  his 
brightest  and  freshest  humour,  was  his  valued  friend  John 
Leech,  whose  services,  together  occasionally  with  those  of 
Doyle,  Frank  Stone,  and  Tenniel,  as  well  as  of  his  faithful 
Stanfield  and  Maclise,  he  secured  for  his  Christmas  books. 
The  Pickwick  Paj^ers,  of  which  the  issue  was  completed 
by  the  end  of  1837,  brought  in  to  Dickens  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  after  a  time  a  handsome  annual  income.  On 
the  whole  this  has  remained  the  most  general  favourite  of 
all  his  books.  Yet  it  is  not  for  this  reason  only  that 
Pickwick  defies  criticism,  but  also  because  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  book  was  begun  and  carried  on 
make  it  preposterous  to  judge  it  by  canons  applicable  to 
its  author's  subsequent  fictions.     As  the  serial  proceeded, 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  23 

tlie  interest  which  was  to  be  divided  between  the  inserted 
tales,  some  of  which  have  real  merit,  and  the  framework, 
was  absorbed  by  the  latter.  The  rise  in  the  style  of  the 
book  can  almost  be  measured  by  the  change  in  the  treat- 
ment of  its  chief  character,  Mr.  Pickwick  himself.  In  a 
later  preface,  Dickens  endeavoured  to  illustrate  this  change 
by  the  analogy  of  real  life.  The  truth,  of  course,  is  that  it 
was  only  as  the  author  proceeded  that  he  recognised  the 
capabilities  of  the  character,  and  his  own  power  of  making 
it,  and  his  book  with  it,  truly  lovable  as  well  as  laughable. 
Thus,  on  the  very  same  page  in  which  Mr.  Pickwick  proves 
himself  a  true  gentleman  in  his  leave-taking  from  Mr. 
Nupkins,  there  follows  a  little  bit  of  the  idyl  between 
Sam  and  the  pretty  housemaid,  written  with  a  delicacy 
that  could  hardly  have  been  suspected  in  the  chronicler  of 
the  experiences  of  Miss  Jemima  Evans  or  of  Mr.  Augustus 
Cooper.  In  the  subsequent  part  of  the  main  narrative 
will  be  found  exemplified  nearly  all  the  varieties  of  pathos 
of  which  Dickens  was  afterwards  so  repeatedly  to  prove 
himself  master,  more  especially,  of  course,  in  those  prison 
scenes  for  which  some  of  our  older  novelists  may  have 
furnished  him  with  hints;  Even  that  subtle  species  of 
humour  is  not  wanting  which  is  content  to  miss  its  effect 
with  the  less  attentive  reader ;  as  in  this  passage  concern- 
ing the  ruined  cobbler's  confidences  to  Sam  in  the  Fleet  r'^ 

"  The  cobbler  paused  to  ascertain  what  effect  his  story  had  pro- 
duced on  Sam ;  but  finding  that  he  had  dropped  asleep,  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  sighed,  put  it  down,  drew  the  bedclothes  over 
his  head,  and  went  to  sleep  too." 

Goldsmith  himself  could  not  have  put  more  of  pathos  and 
more  of  irony  into  a  single  word. 

But  it  may  seem  out  of  place  to  dwell  upon  details  such 


24  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

as  this  in  view  of  the  broad  and  universally  acknowledged 
comic  effects  of  this  masterpiece  of  English  humour*  jV  Its 
many  genuinely  comic  characters  are  as  broadly  marked 
as  the  heroes  of  the  least  refined  of  sporting  novels,  and  as 
true  to  nature  as  the  most  elaborate  products  of  Addison's 
art.  The  author's  humour  is  certainly  not  one  which 
eschew^' simple  in  favour  of  subtle  means,  or  which  is 
averse  from  occasional  desipienfie  in  the  form  of  the  wild- 
est farce.  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter's  garden-party  —  or  rather 
"public  breakfast" — at  The  Den,  Eatanswill;  Mr.  Pick- 
wick's nocturnal  descent,  through  three  gooseberry-bushes 
and  a  rose-tree,  upon  the  virgin  soil  of  Miss  Tomkins's  es- 
tablishment for  young  ladies ;  the  supplice  cfun  liomme  of 
Mr.  Pott;  Mr.  Weller  junior's  love-letter,  with  notes  and 
comments  by  Mr.  Weller  senior,  and  Mr.  Weller  senior's 
own  letter  of  afBiction  written  by  somebody  else;  the 
footmen's  "swarry"  at  Bath,  and  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer's  bach- 
elors' party  in  the  Borough — all  these  and  many  other 
scenes  and  passages  have  in  them  that  jovial  element  of 
exaggeration  which  nobody  mistakes  and  nobody  resents. 
Whose  duty  is  it  to  check  the  volubility  of  Mr.  Alfred 
Jingle,  or  to  weigh  the  heaviness,  quot  libras,  of  the  Fat 
Boy?  Every  one  is  conscious  of  the  fact  that  in  the  con- 
tagious high  spirits  of  the  author  lies  one  of  the  chief 
charms  of  the  book.  Not,  however,  that  the  effect  pro- 
duced is  obtained  without  the  assistance  of  a  very  vigilant 
art.  Nowhere  is  this  more  apparent  than  in  the  character 
which  is  upon  the  whole  the  most  brilliant  of  the  many 
brilliant  additions  which  the  author  made  to  his  original 
group  of  personages.  If  there  is  nothing  so  humorous  in 
the  book  as  Sam  Weller,  neither  is  there  in  it  anything 
more  pathetic  than  the  relation  between  him  and  his  mas- 
ter. \  As  for  Sam  Weller's  style  of  speech,  scant  justice 


il]  from  success  to  success.  25 

was  done  to  it  by  Mr.  Pickwick  when  he  observed  to  Job 
Trotter,  "  My  man  is  in  the  right,  although  his  mode  of 
expressing  his  opinion  is  somewhat  homely,  and  occasion- 
ally incomprehensible."  The  fashion  of  Sam's  gnomic 
philosophy  is  at  least  as  old  as  Theocritus  ;^  but  the  spe- 
cial impress  which  he  has  given  to  it  is  his  own,  rudely 
foreshadow^ed,  perhaps,  in  some  of  the  apophthegms  of  his 
father.  Incidental  Sam  Wellerisms  in  Oliver  Twist  and 
Nicholas  Nicklehy  show  how  enduring  a  hold  the  whim- 
sical fancy  had  taken  of  its  creator.  \'For  the  rest,  the 
freshness  of  the  book  continues  the  same  to  the  end ;  and 
farcical  as  are  some  of  the  closing  scenes — those,  for  in- 
stance, in  which  a  chorus  of  coachmen  attends  the  move- 
ments of  the  elder  Mr.  Weller  —  there  is  even  here  no 
straining  after  effect.  An  exception  might  perhaps  be 
found  in  the  catastrophe  of  the  Shepherd,  which  is  coarse- 
ly contrived ;  but  the  fun  of  the  character  is  in  itself  nei- 
ther illegitimate  nor  unwholesome.  It  w^ill  be  observed 
below  that  it  is  the  constant  harping  on  the  same  string, 
the  repeated  picturing  of  professional  preachers  of  religion 
as  gross  and  greasy  scoundrels,  which  in  the  end  becomes 
offensive  in  Dickens. 

On  the  whole,  no  hero  has  ever  more  appropriately  bid- 
den farewell  to  his  labours  than  Mr.  Pickwick  in  the  words 
which  he  uttered  at  the  table  of  the  ever-hospitable  Mr. 
Wardle  at  the  Adelphi. 

" '  I  shall  never  regret,'  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  a  low  voice — '  I  shall 
never  regret  having  devoted  the  greater  part  of  two  years  to  mixing 
with  different  varieties  and  shades  of  human  character ;  frivolous  as 

^  See  Idyll,  xv.  77.     This  discovery  is  not  my  own,  but  that  of  the 
late  Dr.  Donaldson,  who  used  to  translate  the  passage  accordingly 
with  great  gusto. 
2* 


26  DICKENS.  [chap. 

my  pursuit  of  novelty  may  appear  to  many.  Nearly  the  whole  of  my 
previous  life  having  been  devoted  to  business  and  the  pursuit  of 
wealth,  numerous  scenes  of  which  I  had  no  previous  conception  have 
dawned  upon  me — I  hope  to  the  enlargement  of  my  mind,  and  to  the 
improvement  of  my  understanding.  If  I  have  done  but  little  good, 
I  trust  I  have  done  less  harm,  and  that  none  of  my  adventures  will 
be  other  than  a  source  of  amusing  and  pleasant  recollection  to  me  in 
the  decline  of  life.     God  bless  you  all.'  " 


Of  course  Mr.  Pickwick  "  filled  and  drained  a  bumper  " 
to  the  sentiment.  Indeed,  it  "  snowetli "  in  this  book  "  of 
meat  and  drink."  Wine,  ale,  and  brandy  abound  there, 
and  viands  to  which  ample  justice  is  invariably  done — 
even  under  Mr.  Tupman's  hear-trending  circumstances  at 
the  (now,  alas !  degenerate)  Leather  Bottle.  Something 
of  this  is  due  to  the  times  in  which  the  work  was  com- 
posed, and  to  the  class  of  readers  for  which  we  may  sup- 
pose it  in  the  first  instance  to  have  been  intended ;  but 
Dickens,  though  a  temperate  man,  loved  the  paraphernalia 
of  good  cheer,  besides  cherishing  the  associations  which 
are  inseparable  from  it.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  a  lit- 
tle too  much  of  it  in  the  Pickwick  Pa^Kvs,  however  well 
its  presence  may  consort  with  the  geniality  which  per- 
vades them.  It  is  difficult  to  turn  any  page  of  the  book 
without  chancing  on  one  of  those  supremely  felicitous 
phrases  in  the  ready  mintage  of  which  Dickens  at  all 
times  excelled.  But  its  chief  attraction  lies  in  the  spirit 
of  the  whole — that  spirit  of  true  humour  which  calls  forth 
at  once  merriment,  good-wdll,  and  charity. 

In  the  year  1836,  which  the  commencement  of  the  Pick- 
ivick  Pa2oers  has  made  memorable  in  the  history  of  English 
literature,  Dickens  was  already  in  the  full  tide  of  author- 
ship. In  February,  1837,  the  second  number  of  Bentley^s 
Miscellany,  a  new  monthly  magazine  which  he  had  under- 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  27 

taken  to  edit,  contained  the  opening*  chapters  of  his  story 
of  Oliver  Tivist.  Shortly  before  this,  in  September  and 
December,  1836,  he  had  essayed  two  of  the  least  ambitious 
branches  of  dramatic  authorship.  The  acting  of  Harley, 
an  admirable  dry  comedian,  gave  some  vitality  to  The 
Strange  Gentleman^  a  "  comic  burletta,"  or  farce,  in  two 
acts,  founded  upon  the  tale  in  the  Sketches  called  The 
Great  Winglebury  Duel.  It  ran  for  seventy  nights  at 
Drury  Lane,  and,  in  its  author's  opinion,  was  "the  best 
thing  Harley  did."  But  the  adaptation  has  no  special  feat- 
ure distinguishing  it  from  the  original,  unless  it  be  the  ef- 
fective bustle  of  the  opening.  The  Village  Coquettes,  an 
operetta  represented  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  with  mu- 
sic by  Ilullah,  was  an  equally  unpretending  effort.  In 
this  piece  Harley  took  one  part,  that  of  "  a  very  small 
farmer  with  a  very  large  circle  of  intimate  friends,"  and 
John  Parry  made  his  debut  on  the  London  stage  in  an- 
other. To  quote  any  of  the  songs  in  this  operetta  would 
be  very  unfair  to  Dickens.'  He  was  not  at  all  depressed 
by  the  unfavourable  criticisms  which  were  passed  upon  his 
libretto,  and  against  which  he  had  to  set  the  round  decla- 
ration of  Braham,  that  there  had  been  "no  such  ruusic 
since  the  days  of  Shiel,  and  no  such  piece  since  The  Du- 
enna.''^ As  time  went  on,  however,  be  became  anything 
but  proud  of  his  juvenile  productions  as  a  dramatist,  and 
strongly  objected  to  their  revival.  His  third  and  last  at- 
tempt of  this  kind,  a  farce  called  The  Lamplighter,  which 
he  wrote  for  Covent  Garden  in  1838,  was  never  acted,  hav- 
ing been  w^ithdrawn  by  Macready's  v/ish;  and  in  1841 
Dickens  converted  it  into  a  story  printed  among  the  Pic- 

'  For  operas,  as  a  form  of  dramatic  entertainment,  Dickens  seems 
afterwards  to  have  entertained  a  strong  contempt,  sucli  as,  indeed,  it 
is  difficult  for  any  man  with  a  sense  of  humour  wholly  to  avoid. 


28  DICKENS.  [chap. 

nic  Papers,  a  collection  generously  edited  by  liim  for  the 
benefit  of  th^  widow  and  children  of  a  publisher  towards 
whom  he  had  little  cause  for  personal  gratitude.  His 
friendship  for  Macready  kept  alive  in  him  for  some  time 
the  desire  to  write  a  comedy  worthy  of  so  distinguished 
an  actor ;  and,  according  to  his  wont,  he  had  even  chosen 
beforehand  for  the  piece  a  name  which  he  was  not  to  for- 
get— JVo  Thoroughfare.  But  the  genius  of  the  age,  an 
influence  wdiich  is  often  stronger  than  personal  wishes  or 
inclinations,  diverted  him  from  dramatic  composition.  lie 
would  have  been  equally  unwilling  to  see  mentioned  among 
his  literary  works  the  Life  of  Grimaldi,  which  he  merely 
edited,  and  which  must  be  numbered  among  forgotten  me- 
morials of  forgotten  greatness. 

To  the  earlier  part  of  1838  belong  one  or  two  other 
publications,  which  their  author  never  cared  to  reprint. 
The  first  of  these,  however,  a  short  pamphlet  entitled 
Sunday  under  Three  Heads,  is  not  without  a  certain  bio- 
graphical interest.  This  little  book  was  written  with  im- 
mediate reference  to  a  bill  "  for  the  better  observance  of 
the  Sabbath,"  which  the  House  of  Commons  had  recently 
thrown  out  by  a  small  majority ;  and  its  special  purpose 
was  the  advocacy  of  Sunday  excursions,  and  harmless  Sun- 
day amusements,  in  lieu  of  the  alternate  gloom  and  drunk- 
enness distinguishing  what  Dickens  called  a  London  Sun- 
day as  it  is.  His  own  love  of  fresh  air  and  brightness  in- 
tensified his  hatred  of  a  formalism  which  shuts  its  ears  to 
argument.  In  the  powerful  picture  of  a  Sunday  evening 
in  London,  "gloomy,  close,  and  stale,"  which  he  afterwards 
drew  in  Little  Dorrit,  he  almost  seems  to  hold  Sabbatari- 
anism and  the  weather  responsible  for  one  another.  AYhen 
he  afterwards  saw  a  Parisian  Sunday,  he  thought  it  "  not 
comfortable,"  so  that,  like  others  who  hate  bigotry,  he  may 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  29 

perhaps  Lave  come  to  recognise  the  difficulty  of  arrang- 
ing an  English  Sunday  as  it  might  be  made.  On  the  oth- 
er hand,  he  may  have  remembered  his  youthful  fancy  of 
the  good  clergyman  encouraging  a  game  of  cricket  after 
church,  when  thirty  years  later,  writing  from  Edinburgh, 
he  playfully  pictured  the  counterpart  of  Sunday  as  Sab- 
bath bills  loould  have  it:  describing  how  "the  usual  prep- 
arations are  making  for  the  band  in  the  open  air  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  usual  pretty  children  (selected  for  that 
purpose)  are  at  this  moment  hanging  garlands  round  the 
Scott  monument  preparatory  to  the  innocent  Sunday  dance 
round  that  edifice  with  which  the  diversions  invariably 
close."  The  Sketches  of  Youny  Gentlemen^  published  in 
the  same  year,  are  little  if  at  all  in  advance  of  the  earlier 
Sketches  by  Boz,  and  were  evidently  written  to  order.  He 
finished  them  in  precisely  a  fortnight,  and  noted  in  liis 
diary  that  "  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  for  such 
a  book,  without  any  name  to  it,  is  pretty  well."  The 
Sketches  of  Youny^  Coujjles^  which  followed  as  late  as 
1840,  have  the  advantage  of  a  facetious  introduction,  sug- 
gested by  her  Majesty's  own  announcement  of  her  ap- 
proaching marriage.  But  the  life  has  long  gone  out  of 
these  pleasantries,  as  it  has  from  others  of  the  same  cast, 
in  which  many  a  mirthful  spirit,  forced  to  coin  its  mirth 
into  money,  has  ere  now  spent  itself. 

It  was  the  better  fortune  of  Dickens  to  be  able  almost 
from  the  first  to  keep  nearly  all  his  writings  on  a  level 
with  his  powers.  He  never  made  a  bolder  step  forwards 
than  when,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  production  of  Pick- 
wick^ he  began  his  first  long  continuous  story,  the  Advent- 
ures of  Oliver  Tioist.  Those  who  have  looked  at  the 
MS.  of  this  famous  novel  will  remember  the  vigour  of  the 
handwriting,  and  how  few,  in  comparison  with  his  later 


30  DICKENS.  [cuAP. 

MSS.,  are  the  additions  and  obliterations  which  it  exhibits. 
But  here  and  there  the  writing  shows  traces  of  excite- 
ment ;  for  the  author's  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  much 
of  it,  contrary  to  liis  later  habit,  was  written  at  night. 
No  doubt  he  was  upheld  in  the  labour  of  authorship  by- 
something  besides  ambition  and  consciousness  of  strength. 
Oliver  Tioist  was  certainly  written  with  a  purpose,  and 
with  one  that  was  afterwards  avowed.  The  author  in- 
tended to  put  before  his  readers — "  so  long  as  their  speech 
did  not  offend  the  ear"  —  a  picture  of  "dregs  of  life," 
hitherto,  as  he  believed,  never  exhibited  by  any  novelist 
in  their  loathsome  reality.  Yet  the  old  masters  of  fic- 
tion. Fielding  in  particular,  as  well  as  the  old  master  of 
the  brush  whom  Dickens  cites  (Hogarth),  had  not  shrunk 
from  the  path  which  their  disciple  now  essayed.  Dickens, 
however,  was  naturally  thinking  of  his  own  generation, 
which  had  already  relished  Paul  Clifford,  and  which  was 
not  to  be  debarred  from  exciting  itself  over  Jack  Shep- 
^:)r/rc?,  begun  before  Oliver  Twist  hadlbeen  completed,  and 
in  the  self-same  magazine.  Dickens's  purpose  was  an  hon- 
est and  a  praiseworthy  one.  But  the  most  powerful  and 
at  the  same  time  the  most  lovable  clement  in  his  genius 
suggested  the  silver  lining  to  the  cloud.  To  that  unfail- 
ing power  of  sympathy  which  was  the  mainspring  of  both 
his  most  affecting  and  his  most  humorous  touches,  we  owe 
the  redeeming  features  in  his  company  of  criminals;  not 
only  the  devotion  and  the  heroism  of  Nancy,  but  the  ir- 
resistible vivacity  of  the  Artful  Dodger,  and  the  good-hu- 
mour of  Charley  Bates,  which  moved  Talfouvd  to  "  plead 
as  earnestly  in  mitigation  of  judgment"  against  him  as 
ever  he  had  done  "  at  the  bar  for  any  client  he  most  re- 
spected." Other  parts  of  the  story  were  less  carefully 
tempered.      Mr.  Fang,  the   police  -  magistrate,  appears   to 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  31 

have  been  a  rather  hasty  portrait  of  a  living  original ;  and 
the  whole  picture  of  Bumble  and  Bumbledom  was  cer- 
tainly a  caricature  of  the  working  of  the  new  Poor-law, 
confounding  the  question  of  its  merits  and  demerits  with 
that  of  its  occasional  maladministration.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  vein  of  truest  pathos  runs  through  the  whole  of 
poor  Nancy's  story,  and  adds  to  the  effect  of  a  marvel- 
lously powerful  catastrophe.  From  Nancy's  interview  with 
Rose  at  London  Bridge  to  the  closing  scenes — the  flight  of 
Sikes,  his  death  at  Jacob's  Island,  and  the  end  of  the  Jew — 
the  action  has  an  intensity  rare  in  the  literature  of  the 
ten-ible.  By  the  side  of  this  genuine  tragic  force,  which 
perhaps  it  would  be  easiest  to  parallel  from  some  of  the 
"  low  "  domestic  tragedy  of  the  Elizabethans,  the  author's 
comic  humour  burst  forth  upon  the  world  in  a  variety  of 
entirely  new  types:  Bumble  and  his  partner;  Noah  Clay- 
pole,  complete  in  himself,  but  full  of  promise  for  Uriah 
Heep ;  and  the  Jew,  with  all  the  pupils  and  supporters  of 
his  establishment  of  technical  education.  Undeniably  the 
story  of  Oliver  Twist  also  contains  much  that  is  artiUcial 
and  stilted,  with  much  that  is  weak  and  (the  author  of 
iJndymion  is  to  be  thanked  for  the  word)  "  gushy."  Thus, 
all  the  Maylie  scenes,  down  to  the  last  in  which  Oliver  dis- 
creetly "  glides  "  away  from  the  lovers,  are  barely  endura- 
ble. But,  whatever  its  shortcomings,  Oliver  Twist  remains 
an  almost  unique  example  of  a  young  author's  brilliant 
success  in  an  enterprise  of  complete  novelty  and  extreme 
difficulty.  Some  of  its  situations  continue  to  exercise  their 
powder  even  over  readers  already  familiarly  acquainted  with 
them ;  and  some  of  its  characters  will  live  by  the  side  of 
Dickens's  happiest  and  most  finished  creations.  Even  had 
a  sapient  critic  been  right  who  declared,  during  the  prog- 
ress of  the  story,  that  Mr.  Dickens  appeared  to  have  worked 


82  DICKENS.  [cuap} 

out  "the  particular  vein  of  liiimour  which  had  hitherto 
yielded  so  much  attractive  metal,"  it  would  have  been 
worked  out  to  some  purpose.  After  making  his  readers 
merry  with  PickioicTc,  he  had  thrilled  them  with  Oliver 
Tivist ;  and  by  the  one  book  as  by  the  other  he  had  made 
them  think  better  of  mankind. 

But  neither  had  his  vein  been  worked  out,  nor  was  his 
hand  content  with  a  single  task.  In  April,  1838,  several 
months  before  the  completion  of  Oliver  Ttvist,  the  first 
number  of  Nicholas  Nichlehy  appeared ;  and  while  en- 
gaged upon  the  composition  of  these  books  he  contributed 
to  Bentlei/s  Miscellany,  of  which  he  retained  the  editor- 
ship till  the  early  part  of  1839,  several  smaller  articles. 
Of  these,  the  Muclfog  Pai^ers  have  been  recently  thought 
worth  reprinting;  but  even  supposing  the  satire  against 
the  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Everything  to 
have  not  yet  altogether  lost  its  savour,  the  fun  of  the  day 
before  yesterday  refuses  to  be  revived.  Nicholas  Nickle- 
hy,  published  in  twenty  numbers,  was  the  labour  of  many 
months,  but  was  produced  under  so  great  a  press  of  work 
that  during  the  whole  time  of  publication  Dickens  was 
never  a  single  number  in  advance.  Yet,  though  not  one 
of  the  most  perfect  of  his  books,  it  is  indisputably  one  of 
the  most  thoroughly  original,  and  signally  illustrates  the 
absurdity  of  recent  attempts  to  draw  a  distinction  between 
the  imaginative  romance  of  the  past  and  the  realistic  novel 
of  the  present.  Dickens  was  never  so  strong  as  when  he 
produced  from  the  real ;  and  in  this  instance — starting, 
no  doubt,  with  a  healthy  prejudice — so  carefully  had  he 
inspected  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Yorkshire  schools,  of 
which  Dotheboys  Hall  was  to  be  held  up  as  the  infamous 
type,  that  there  seems  to  be  no  diflSculty  in  identifying 
the  site  of  the  very  school  itself;  while  the  Portsmouth 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  33 

Theatre  is  to  tlie  full  as  accurate  a  study  as  the  Yorkshire 
school.  So,  again,  as  every  one  knows,  the  Brothers  Chec- 
ryblc  were  real  personages  well  known  in  Manchester,* 
where  even  the  original  of  Tim  Linkinwater  still  survives 
in  local  remembrance.  On  the  other  hand,  with  how  con- 
scious a  strength  has  the  author's  imaginative  power  used 
and  transmuted  his  materials :  in  the  Squeers  family  creat- 
ing a  group  of  inimitable  grotesqueness ;  in  their  humblest 
victim  Smike  giving  one  of  his  earliest  pictures  of  those 
outcasts  whom  he  drew  again  and  again  with  such  infinite 
tenderness ;  and  in  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  and  his  com- 
pany, including  the  Phenomenon,  establishing  a  jest,  but 
a  kindly  one,  for  all  times !  In  a  third  series  of  episodes 
in  this  book,  it  is  universally  agreed  that  the  author  has 
no  less  conspicuously  failed.  Dickens's  first  attempt  to 
picture  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  aristocracy  cer- 
tainly resulted  in  portraying  some  very  peculiar  people. 
Lord  Frederick  Yerisopht,  indeed — who  is  allowed  to  re- 
deem his  character  in  the  end — is  not  without  touches 
resembling  nature. 

"  ' I  take  ail  interest,  my  lord,'  said  Mrs.  Wititterly,  with  a  faint 
smile,  '  such  an  interest  in  the  drama.' 

"  '  Ye-es.     It's  very  interasting,'  replied  Lord  Frederick. 

" '  I'm  always  ill  after  Shakspeare,'  said  Mrs.  Wititterly.  '  I 
scarcely  exist  the  next  day.  I  find  the  reaction  so  very  great  after 
a  tragedy,  my  lord,  and  Shakspeare  is  such  a  delicious  creature.' 

"  *  Ye-es,'  replied  Lord  Frederick.     '  He  was  a  clayver  man.'  " 

But  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  is  a  kind  of  scoundrel  not  fre- 
quently met  with  in  polite  society ;  his  henchmen  Pluck 
and  Pyke  have  the  air  of  "  follow^ers  of  Don  John,"  and 

^  W.  &  D.  Grant  Brothers  had  their  warehouse  at  the  lower  end  of 
Cannon  Street,  and  their  private  house  in  Mosely  Street. 


34 


DICKERS.  [chap. 


tlie  enjoyments  of  the  ''  trainers  of  young  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  "  at  Hampton  races,  together  with  the  riotous 
debauch  which  precedes  the  catastrophe,  seem  taken  direct 
from  the  transpontine  stage.  The  fact  is  that  Dickens 
was  here  content  to  draw  his  vile  seducers  and  wicked 
oro-ies  just  as  commonplace  writers  had  drawn  them  a 
thousand  times  before,  and  will  draw  them  a  thousand 
times  again.  Much  of  the  hero's  talk  is  of  the  same  con- 
ventional kind.  On  the  other  hand,  nothing  could  be 
more  genuine  than  the  flow  of  fun  in  this  book,  which 
finds  its  outlet  in  the  most  unexpected  channels,  but  no- 
where so  resistlessly  as  in  the  invertebrate  talk  of  Mrs. 
Nickleby.  For  her  Forster  discovered  a  literary  proto- 
type in  a  character  of  Miss  Austen's;  but  even  if  Mrs. 
Nickleby  was  founded  on  Miss  Bates,  in  Emma,  she  left 
her  original  far  behind.  Miss  Bates,  indeed,  is  verbose, 
roundabout,  and  parenthetic ;  but  the  widow  never  devi- 
ates into  coherence. 

Nicholas  Nickleby  shows  the  comic  genius  of  its  author 
in  full  activity,  and  should  be  read  with  something  of  the 
buoyancy  of  spirit  in  which  it  was  written,  and  not  with 
a  callousness  capable  of  seeing  in  so  amusing  a  scamp  as 
Mr.  Mantalini  one  of  Dickens's  "  monstrous  failures."  At 
the  same  time  this  book  displays  the  desire  of  the  author 
to  mould  his  manner  on  the  old  models.  The  very  title 
has  a  savour  of  Smollett  about  it ;  the  style  has  more  than 
one  reminiscence  of  him,  as  well  as  of  Fielding  and  of  Gold- 
smith ;  and  the  general  method  of  the  narrative  resembles 
that  of  our  old  novelists  and  their  Spanish  and  French 
predecessors.  Partly  for  this  reason,  and  partly,  no  doubt, 
because  of  the  rapidity  with  which  the  story  was  written, 
its  construction  is  weaker  than  is  usual  even  with  Dick- 
ens's earlier  works.    Coincidences  are  repeatedly  employed 


II.]  FKOM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  35 

to  help  on  the  action ;  and  the  denoumeiit,  which,  besides 
turning  Mr.  Sqiieers  into  a  thief,  reveals  Ralph  Nickleby 
as  the  father  of  Smike,  is  oppressively  complete.  As  to 
the  practical  aim  of  the  novel,  the  author's  word  must  be 
taken  for  the  fact  that  "  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  school  were 
faint  and  feeble  pictures  of  an  existing  reality,  purposely 
subdued  and  kept  down  lest  they  should  be  deemed  im- 
possible." The  exposure,  no  doubt,  did  good  in  its  way, 
though  perhaps  Mr.  Squeers,  in  a  more  or  less  modified 
form,  has  proved  a  tougher  adversary  to  overcome  than 
Mrs.  Gamp. 

During  these  years  Dickens  was  chiefly  resident  in  the 
modest  locality  of  Doughty  Street,  whither  he  had  moved 
his  household  from  the  "  three  rooms,"  "  three  storeys 
high,"  in  Furnival's  Inn,  early  in  1837.  It  was  not  till 
the  end  of  1839  that  he  took  up  his  abode,  further  west, 
in  a  house  which  he  came  to  like  best  among  all  his  Lon- 
don habitations,  in  Devonshire  Terrace,  Regent's  Park. 
His  town  life  was,  however,  varied  by  long  rustications  at 
Twickenham  and  at  Petersham,  and  by  sojourns  at  the  sea- 
side, of  which  he  was  a  most  consistent  votary.  He  is 
found  in  various  years  of  his  life  at  Brighton,  Dover,  and 
Bonchurcli  —  where  he  liked  his  neighbours  better  than 
he  liked  the  climate ;  and  in  later  years,  when  he  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  Continent,  he  repeatedly  do- 
mesticated himself  at  Boulogne.  But  already  in  1837 
he  had  discovered  the  little  sea-side  village,  as  it  then  was, 
which  for  many  years  afterwards  became  his  favourite 
holiday  retreat,  and  of  which  he  would  be  the  genius  loci^ 
even  if  he  had  not  by  a  special  description  immortalised 
Our  English  Watering-place.  Broadstairs — whose  after- 
noon tranquillity  even  to  this  day  is  undisturbed  except 
by  the  Ethiopians  on  their  tramp  from  Margate  to  Rams- 


36  DICKENS.  [chap. 

gate — and  its  constant  visitor,  are  thus  described  in  a  let- 
ter written  to  an  American  friend  in  1843:  "This  is  a 
little  fisliing-place ;  intensely  quiet;  built  on  a  cliff,  Avhere- 
on — in  the  centre  of  a  tiny  semicircular  bay — our  house 
stands;  the  sea  rolling  and  dashing  under  the  windows. 
Seven  miles  out  arc  the  Goodwin  Sands  (you've  heard  of 
the  Goodwin  Sands?),  whence  floating  lights  perpetually 
wink  after  dark,  as  if  they  were  carrying  on  intrigues 
with  the  servants.  Also  there  is  a  big  light-house  called 
the  North  Foreland  on  a  hill  beyond  the  village,  a  severe 
parsonic  light,  which  reproves  the  young  and  giddy  float- 
ers, and  stares  grimly  out  upon  the  sea.  Under  the  cliff 
are  rare  good  sands,  where  all  the  children  assemble  every 
morning  and  throw  up  impossible  fortifications,  which  the 
sea  throws  down  again  at  high-water.  Old  gentlemen  and 
ancient  ladies  flirt  after  their  own  manner  in  two  reading- 
rooms  and  on  a  great  many  scattered  seats  in  the  open  air. 
Other  old  gentlemen  look  all  day  through  telescopes  and 
never  see  anything.  In  a  bay-window  in  a  one-pair  sits, 
from  nine  o'clock  to  one,  a  gentleman  with  rather  long 
hair  and  no  neckcloth,  who  writes  and  grins  as  if  he 
thought  he  were  very  funny  indeed.     His  name  is  Boz." 

Not  a  few  houses  at  Broadstairs  may  boast  of  having 
been  at  one  time  or  another  inhabited  by  him  and  his. 
Of  the  long- desired  Fort  House,  however,  which  local 
perverseness  triumphantly  points  out  as  the  original  of 
Bleah  House  (no  part  even  of  Bleak  House  was  written 
there,  though  part  of  David  Copperfield  was),  he  could  not 
obtain  possession  till  1850.  As  like  Bleak  House  as  it  is 
like  Chesney  Wold,  it  stands  at  the  very  highest  end  of 
the  place,  looking  straight  out  to  sea,  over  the  little  har- 
bour and  its  two  colliers,  with  a  pleasant  stretch  of  corn- 
fields leading  along  the  cliff  towards  the  lio-ht-house  which 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  37 

Dickens  promised  Lord  Carlisle  should  servo  liim  as  a 
niglit-ligbt.  Bat  in  1837  Dickens  was  content  with  nar- 
rower quarters.  The  "long  small  procession  of  sons"  and 
daughters  had  as  yet  only  begun  with  the  birth  of  his  el- 
dest boy.  His  life  was  simple  and  full  of  work,  and  occa- 
sional sea-side  or  country  quarters,  and  now  and  then  a 
brief  holiday  tour,  afforded  the  necessary  refreshment  of 
change.  In  1837  he  made  his  first  short  trip  abroad,  and 
in  the  following  year,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Ilablot  Browne, 
he  spent  a  week  of  enjoyment  in  Warwickshire,  noting 
in  his  Beinembrancer :  "Stratford;  Sbakspeare;  the  birth- 
place; visitors,  scribblers,  old  woman  (query  whether  she 
knows  what  Sbakspeare  did),  etc."  Meanwhile,  among 
his  truest  home  enjoyments  were  his  friendships.  They 
were  few  in  number,  mostly  with  men  for  whom,  after  he 
had  once  taken  them  into  his  heart,  he  preserved  a  life-long 
regard.  Chief  of  all  these  were  John  Forster  and  Daniel 
Maclise,  the  high-minded  painter,  to  whom  we  owe  a  charm- 
ing portrait  of  his  friend  in  this  youthful  period  of  his 
life.  Losing  them,  he  afterguards  wrote  when  absent  from 
England,  was  "  like  losing  my  arms  and  legs,  and  dull  and 
tame  I  am  without  you."  Besides  these,  he  was  at  this 
time  on  very  friendly  terms  with  William  Harrison  Ains- 
worth,  who  succeeded  him  in  the  editorship  of  the  Miscel- 
lany, and  concerning  whom  he  exclaimed  in  his  Remem- 
brancer:  "Ainsworth  has  a  fine  heart."  At  the  close  of 
1838,  Dickens,  Ainsworth,  and  Forster  constituted  them- 
selves a  club  called  the  Trio,  and  afterwards  the  Cerberus. 
Another  name  frequent  in  the  Remembrancer  entries  is 
that  of  Talfourd,  a  generous  friend,  in  whom,  as  Dickens 
finely  said  after  his  death,  "  the  success  of  other  men  made 
as  little  change  as  his  own."  All  these,  together  with 
Stanfield,  the  Landseers,  Douglas  Jerrold,  Macready,  and 


38  DICKENS.  [chap. 

otlicrs  less  known  to  fame,  were  among  the  friends  and  as- 
sociates of  Dickens's  prime.  The  letters,  too,  remaining 
from  this  part  of  Dickens's  life,  have  all  the  same  tone  of 
unaffected  frankness.  With  some  of  his  intimate  friends 
he  had  his  established  epistolary  jokes.  Stanfield,  the  great 
marine  painter,  he  pertinaciously  treated  as  a  "  very  salt " 
correspondent,  communications  to  whom,  as  to  a  "block- 
reeving,  main -brace -splicing,  lead -heaving,  ship -conning, 
stun'sail-bending,  deck-swabbing  son  of  a  sea-cook,"  needed 
garnishing  with  the  obscurest  technicalities  and  strangest 
oaths  of  his  clement.  (It  is  touching  to  turn  from  these 
friendly  buffooneries  to  a  letter  written  by  Dickens  many 
years  afterward — in  1867 — and  mentioning  a  visit  to  "  poor 
dear  Stanfield,"  when  "  it  was  clear  that  the  shadow  of  the 
end  had  fallen  on  him.  ...  It  happened  well  that  I  had 
seen,  on  a  wild  day  at  Tynemouth,  a  remarkable  sea  effect, 
of  which  I  wrote  a  description  to  him,  and  he  had  kept  it 
under  his  pillow.")  Macrcady,  after  his  retirement  from 
the  stage,  is  bantered  on  the  score  of  his  juvenility  with  a 
pertinacity  of  fun  recalling  similar  whimsicalities  of  Charles 
Lamb's ;  or  the  jest  is  changed,  and  the  great  London  actor 
in  his  rural  retreat  is  depicted  in  the  character  of  a  coun- 
try gentleman  strange  to  the  wicked  ways  of  the  town. 
As  in  the  case  of  many  delightful  Icttcr-wTiters,  the  charm 
of  Dickens  as  a  correspondent  vanishes  so  soon  as  he  be- 
comes self-conscious.  Even  in  liis  letters  to  Lady  Bless- 
ington  and  Mrs.  Watson,  a  striving  after  effect  is  at  times 
perceptibly ;  the  homage  rendered  to  Lord  John  Russell  is 
not  offered  with  a  light  hand ;  on  the  contrary,  when  writ- 
ing to  Douglas  Jerrold,  Dickens  is  occasionally  so  intent 
upon  proving  himself  a  sound  Radical  that  his  vehemence 
all  but  passes  into  a  shriek. 

In  these  early  years,  at  all  events,  Dickens  was  happy  in 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  39 

the  society  of  his  chosen  friends.  His  favourite  amuse- 
ments were  a  country  walk  or  ride  with  Forster,  or  a  din- 
ner at  Jack  Straw's  Castle  with  him  and  Maclise.  He  was 
likewise  happy  at  home.  Here,  however,  in  the  very  in- 
nermost circle  of  his  affections,  he  had  to  suffer  the  first 
fijreat  personal  grief  of  his  life.  His  younger  sister-in-law, 
Miss  Mary  Hogarth,  had  accompanied  him  and  his  wife 
into  their  new  abode  in  Doughty  Street,  and  here,  in  May, 
1837,  she  died,  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen.  No  sorrow 
seems  ever  to  have  touched  the  heart  and  possessed  the 
imagination  of  Charles  Dickens  like  that  for  the  loss  of 
this  dearly-loved  girl,  "  young,  beautiful,  and  good."  "  I 
can  solemnly  say,"  he  wrote  to  her  mother  a  few  months 
after  her  death, "  that,  waking  or  sleeping,  I  have  never 
lost  the  recollection  of  our  hard  trial  and  sorrow,  and  I 
feel  that  I  never  shall."  "  If,"  ran  part  of  his  first  entry 
in  the  Diary  which  he  began  on  the  first  day  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  "  she  were  w^ith  us  now,  the  same  winning, 
happy,  amiable  companion,  sympathising  with  all  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  more  than  any  one  I  knew  ever  did 
or  will,  I  think  I  should  have  nothing  to  wish  for  but  a 
continuance  of  such  happiness.  But  she  is  gone,  and  pray 
God  I  may  one  day,  through  his  mercy,  rejoin  her."  It 
was  not  till,  in  after  years,  it  became  necessary  to  abandon 
the  project,  that  he  ceased  to  cherish  the  intention  of  be- 
ing buried  by  her  side,  and  through  life  the  memory  of 
her  haunted  him  with  strange  vividness.  At  the  Niagara 
Falls,  when  the  spectacle  of  Nature  in  her  glory  had  pro- 
duced in  him,  as  he  describes  it,  a  wondrously  tranquil  and 
happy  peace  of  mind,  he  longed  for  the  presence  of  his 
dearest  friends,  and  "  I  was  going  to  add,  what  would  I 
give  if  the  dear  girl,  whose  ashes  lie  in  Kensal  Green,  had 
lived  to  come  so  far  along  with  us ;  but  she  has  been  here 


40  DICKENS.  [chap. 

many  times,  I  doubt  not,  since  her  sweet  face  faded  from 
my  earthly  sight."  "After  she  died,"  he  wrote  to  her 
mother  in  May,  1843,  "I  dreamed  of  her  every  night  for 
many  weeks,  and  always  with  a  kind  of  quiet  happiness, 
which  became  so  pleasant  to  me  that  I  never  lay  down  at 
night  without  a  hope  of  the  vision  coming  back  in  one 
shape  or  other.  And  so  it  did."  Once  he  dreamt  of  her, 
when  travelling  in  Yorkshire ;  and  then,  after  an  interval 
of  many  months,  as  he  lay  asleep  one  night  at  Genoa,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  her  spirit  visited  him  and  spoke  to 
him  in  words  which  he  afterwards  precisely  remembered, 
when  he  had  awaked,  with  the  tears  running  down  his 
face.  He  never  forgot  her,  and  in  the  year  before  he  died 
he  wrote  to  his  friend :  "  She  is  so  much  in  my  thoughts 
at  all  times,  especially  when  I  am  successful  and  have 
greatly  prospered  in  anything,  that  the  recollection  of  her 
is  an  essential  part  of  my  being,  and  is  as  inseparable  from 
my  existence  as  the  beating  of  my  heart  is !"  In  a  word, 
she  was  the  object  of  the  one  great  imaginative  passion  of 
his  life.  Many  have  denied  that  there  is  any  likeness  to 
nature  in  the  fictitious  figure  in  which,  according  to  the 
wont  of  imaginative  w^orkers,  he  was  irresistibly  impelled 
to  embody  the  sentiment  with  which  she  inspired  him  ;  but 
the  sentiment  itself  became  part  of  his  nature,  and  part 
of  his  history.  When  in  writing  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop 
he  approached  the  death  of  Little  Nell,  he  shrunk  from 
the  task :  "  Dear  Mary  died  yesterday,  when  I  think  of 
this  sad  story." 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  has  long  been  freed  from  the 
encumbrances  which  originally  surrounded  it,  and  there 
is  little  except  biographical  interest  in  the  half-forgotten 
history  of  blaster  Humphrey's  Clock.  Early  in  the  year 
1840,  his  success  and  confidence   in   his  powers  induced 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  41 

him  to  undertake  an  illustrated  weekly  journal,  in  wliich 
he  depended  solely  on  his  own  name,  and,  in  the  first 
instance,  on  his  own  efforts,  as  a  writer.  Such  was  his 
trust  in  his  versatility  that  he  did  not  think  it  necessary 
even  to  open  with  a  continuous  story.  Perhaps  the  popu- 
larity of  the  Pickwick  Pcqoers  encouraged  him  to  adopt 
the  time-honoured  device  of  wrapping  up  several  tales  in 
one.  In  any  case,  his  framework  was  in  the  present  in- 
stance too  elaborate  to  take  hold  of  the  public  mind,  while 
the  characters  introduced  into  it  possessed  little  or  noth- 
ing of  the  freshness  of  their  models  in  the  Taller  and  the 
SiJcctator.  In  order  to  re-enforce  Master  Humphrey,  the 
deaf  gentleman,  and  the  other  original  members  of  his 
benevolent  conclave,  he  hereupon  resorted  to  a  natural,  but 
none  the  less  unhappy,  expedient.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  re- 
vived, together  with  Sam  AVeller  and  his  parent ;  and  a 
Weller  of  the  third  generation  was  brought  on  the  stage 
in  the  person  of  a  precocious  four-year-old,  "  standing 
with  his  little  legs  very  wide  apart  as  if  the  top-boots 
were  familiar  to  them,  and  actually  winking  upon  the 
house-keeper  with  his  infant  eye,  in  imitation  of  his  grand- 
father." A  laugh  may  have  been  raised  at  the  time  by 
this  attempt,  from  which,  however,  every  true  Pickwickian 
must  have  turned  sadly  away.  Nor  was  there  much  in 
the  other  contents  of  these  early  numbers  to  make  up 
for  the  disappointment.  As,  therefore,  neither  "  Master 
Humphrey's  Clock"  nor  "Mr.  Weller's  Watch"  seemed 
to  promise  any  lasting  success,  it  was  prudently  deter- 
mined that  the  story  of  the  Old  Curiosity  Shoj),  of 
which  the  first  portion  had  appeared  in  the  fourth  num- 
ber of  the  periodical,  should  run  on  continuously ;  and 
when  this  had  been  finished,  a  very  short  "link"  suf- 
ficed to  introduce  another  story,  Barnahy  Rudge^  with 


42  DICKENS.  [chap. 

the   close   of   which  Master  HumiAvey's   Clock  likewise 
stopped. 

In  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  though  it  abounds  in  both 
grotesquely  terrible  and  boisterously  laughable  effects,  the 
key-note  is  that  of  an  idyllic  pathos.  The  sense  of  this 
takes  hold  of  the  reader  at  the  very  outset,  as  he  lingers 
over  the  picture,  with  which  the  first  chapter  concludes, 
of  little  Nell  asleep  through  the  solitary  night  in  the  cu- 
riosity-dealer's warehouse.  It  retains  possession  of  him  as 
he  accompanies  the  innocent  heroine  through  her  wander- 
ings, pausing  with  her  in  the  church-yard  where  all  is 
quiet  save  the  cawing  of  the  satirical  rooks,  or  in  the 
school  -  master's  cottage  by  the  open  window,  through 
which  is  borne  upon  the  evening  air  the  distant  hum  of 
the  boys  at  play  upon  the  green,  while  the  poor  school- 
master holds  in  his  hand  the  small  cold  one  of  the  little 
scholar  that  has  fallen  asleep.  Nor  is  it  absent  to  the 
last  when  Nell  herself  lies  at  rest  in  her  little  bed.  "  Her 
little  bird — a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger 
would  have  crushed — was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage ;  and 
the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  mo- 
tionless forever."  The  hand  which  drew  Little  Nell 
afterwards  formed  other  figures  not  less  affecting,  but 
none  so  essentially  poetic.  Like  many  such  characters, 
this  requires,  for  its  full  appreciation,  a  certain  tension  of 
the  mind;  and  those  who  will  not,  or  cannot,  pass  in 
some  measure  out  of  themselves,  will  be  likely  to  tire  of 
the  conception,  or  to  declare  its  execution  artificial.  Cu- 
riously enough,  not  only  was  Little  Nell  a  favourite  of 
Landor,  a  poet  and  critic  utterly  averse  from  meretricious 
art,  but  she  also  deeply  moved  the  sympathy  of  Lord  Jef- 
frey, who  at  least  knew  his  own  mind,  and  spoke  it  in 
both  praise  and  blame.     As  already  stated,  Dickens  only 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  43 

with  difficulty  brought  himself  to  carry  his  story  to  its 
actual  issue,  though  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  he  could 
ever  have  intended  a  different  close  from  that  which  he 
gave  to  it.  His  whole  heart  was  in  the-  stcrfy,  mrr  could 
he  have  consoled  himself  by  means^/^an  ordinary  happy 
ending.  :  -  ^,  .^  '^ 

Dickens's  comic  humour  never  flowed  in'a  ..^ifis^Tfifceii-. 
vein  than  in  the  Old  Curiosity  Shopy  aijd  BQ^where  has  it 
a  more  exquisite  clement  of  pathos  in  it.-  "^e  shock-* 
headed,  red-checked  Kit  is  one  of  the  earliest  of  those  un- 
gainly figures  who  speedily  find  their  way  into  our  affec- 
tions— the  odd  family  to  which  Mr.  Toots,  Tom  Pinch, 
Tommy  Traddles,  and  Joe  Gargery  alike  belong.  But 
the  triumph  of  this  serio-comic  form  of  art  in  the  Old 
Curiosity  Skoj:)  is  to  be  found  in  the  later  experiences  of 
Dick  Swiveller,  who  seems  at  first  merely  a  more  engag- 
ing sample  of  the  Bob  Sawyer  species,  but  who  ends  by 
endearing  himself  to  the  most  thoughtless  laugher.  Dick 
Swiveller  and  his  protegee  have  gained  a  lasting  place 
among  the  favourite  characters  of  English  fiction,  and  the 
privations  of  the  Marchioness  have  possibly  had  a  result 
which  would  have  been  that  most  coveted  by  Dickens — 
that  of  helping  towards  the  better  treatment  of  a  class 
whose  lot  is  among  the  dust  and  ashes,  too  often  very 
bitter  ashes,  of  many  households.  Besides  these,  the 
story  contains  a  variety  of  incidental  characters  of  a  class 
which  Dickens  never  grew  weary  of  drawing  from  the 
life.  Messrs.  Codlin,  Short,  and  Company,  and  the  rest 
of  the  itinerant  showmen,  seem  to  have  come  straight 
from  the  most  real  of  country  fairs ;  and  if  ever  a  troupe 
of  comedians  deserved  pity  on  their  wanderings  through  a 
callous  world,  it  was  the  most  diverting  and  the  most  dis- 
mal of  all  the  mountebanks  that  gathered  round  the  stew 


44  DICKENS.  [chap. 

of  tripe  in  the  kitchen  of  The  Jolly  Sandboys — Jerry's 
performing  dogs. 

" '  Your  people  don't  usually  travel  in  character,  do  they  ?'  said 
Short,  pointing  to  the  dresses  of  the  dogs.  '  It  must  come  expensive 
if  they  do.' 

"  '  No,'  replied  Jerry — '  no,  it's  not  the  custom  with  us.  But  we've 
been  playing  a  little  on  the  road  to-day,  and  we  come  out  with  a  new 
wardrobe  at  the  races,  so  I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  stop  to  un- 
dress.    Down,  Pedro !' " 

In  addition  to  these  public  servants  we  have  a  purveyor 
of  diversion — or  instruction — of  an  altogether  different 
stamp.  "Does  the  caravan  look  as  if  it  know'd  cm?" 
indignantly  demands  the  proprietress  of  Jarley's  wax-work, 
when  asked  whether  she  is  acquainted  with  the  men  of 
the  Punch  show.  She  too  is  drawn,  or  moulded,  in  the 
author's  most  exuberant  style  of  fun,  together  with  her 
company,  in  which  "  all  the  gentlemen  were  very  pigeon- 
breasted  and  very  blue  about  the  beards,  and  all  the  ladies 
were  miraculous  figures;  and  all  the  ladies  and  all  the 
gentlemen  were  looking  intensely  nowhere,  and  staring 
with  extraordinary  earnestness  at  nothing." 

In  contrast  with  these  genial  products  of  observation 
and  humour  stand  the  grotesquely  hideous  personages 
who  play  important  parts  in  the  machinery  of  the  story, 
the  vicious  dwarf  Quilp  and  the  monstrous  virago  Sally 
Brass.  The  former  is  among  the  most  successful  attempts 
of  Dickens  in  a  direction  which  was  full  of  danger  for 
him, as  it  is  for  all  writers;  the  malevolent  little  demon  is 
so  blended  with  his  surroundings  —  the  description  of 
which  forms  one  of  the  author's  most  telling  pictures  of 
the  lonely  foulnesses  of  the  river-side — that  his  life  seems 
natural  in  its  way,  and  his  death  a  most  appropriate  end- 
ing to  it.     Sally  Brass,  *' whose  accomplishments  were  all 


II.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  45 

of  a  masculine  and  strictly  legal  kind,"  is  less  of  a  carica- 
ture, and  not  without  a  humorously  redeeming-  point  of 
feminine  weakness ;  yet  the  end  of  her  and  her  brother  is 
described  at  the  close  of  the  book  with  almost  tragic  ear- 
nestness. On  the  whole,  though  the  poetic  sympathy  of 
Dickens  when  he  wrote  this  book  was  absorbed  in  the 
character  of  his  heroine,  yet  his  genius  rarely  asserted  it- 
self after  a  more  diversified  fashion. 

Of  Barnaby  Rudge,  though  in  my  opinion  an  excellent 
book  after  its  kind,  I  may  speak  more  briefly.  With  the 
exception  of  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  it  was  Dickens's  only 
attempt  in  the  historical  novel.  In  the  earlier  work  the 
relation  between  the  foreground  and  background  of  the 
story  is  skilfully  contrived,  and  the  colouring  of  the  whole, 
without  any  elaborate  attempt  at  accurate  fidelity,  has  a 
generally  true  and  harmonious  effect.  With  the  help  of 
her  portrait  by  a  painter  (Mr.  Frith)  for  whose  pictures 
Dickens  had  a  great  liking,  Dolly  Varden  has  justly  taken 
hold  of  the  popular  fancy  as  a  charming  type  of  a  pretty 
girl  of  a  centnry  ago.  And  some  of  the  local  descriptions 
in  the  early  part  of  the  book  arc  hardly  less  pleasing :  the 
Temple  in  summer,  as  it  was  before  the  charm  of  Fountain 
Court  was  destroyed  by  its  guardians ;  and  the  picturesque 
comforts  of  the  Maypole  Inn,  described  beforehand,  by  way 
of  contrast  to  the  desecration  of  its  central  sanctuary.  The 
intrigue  of  the  story  is  fairly  interesting  in  itself,  and  the 
gentlemanly  villain  who  plays  a  principal  part  in  it,  though, 
as  usual,  over  -  elaborated,  is  drawn  with  more  skill  than 
Dickens  usually  displays  in  such  characters.  After  the 
main  interest  of  the  book  has  passed  to  the  historical  ac- 
tion of  the  George  Gordon  riots,  the  story  still  retains  its 
coherence,  and,  a  few  minor  improbabilities  apart,  is  suc- 
cessfully conducted  to  its  close.     No  historical  novel  can 


40  DICKENS.  [chap. 

altogether  avoid  tlie  banalities  of  tbe  species ;  and  tliongli 
Dickens,  like  all  the  world,  had  his  laugh  at  the  late  Mr. 
G.  P.  R.  James,  he  is  constrained  to  introduce  the  histori- 
cal hero  of  the  tale,  with  his  confidential  adviser,  and  his 
attendant,  in  the  familiar  guise  of  three  horsemen.  As  for 
Lord  George  Gordon  himself,  and  the  riots  of  which  the 
responsibility  remains  inseparable  from  his  unhappy  mem- 
ory, the  representation  of  them  in  the  novel  sufficiently  ac- 
cords both  with  poetic  probability  and  with  historical  fact. 
The  poor  lord's  evil  genius,  indeed,  Gashford — who  has  no 
historical  original — tries  the  reader's  sense  of  verisimilitude 
rather  hard ;  such  converts  are  uncommon  except  among 
approvers.  The  Protestant  hangman,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  some  slight  historical  warranty ;  but  the  leading  part 
which  he  is  made  to  play  in  the  riots,  and  his  resolution  to 
go  any  lengths  "  in  support  of  the  great  Protestant  princi- 
ple of  hanging,"  overshoot  the  mark.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  there  is  any  substantial  exaggeration  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  riots;  thus,  the  burning  of  the  great  distiller's 
house  in  Holborn  is  a  well-authenticated  fact;  and  there 
is  abundant  vigour  in  the  narrative.  Repetition  is  un- 
avoidable in  treating  such  a  theme,  but  in  Barnahy  Rudge 
it  is  not  rendered  less  endurable  by  mannerism,  nor  puffed 
out  with  rhetoric. 

One  very  famous  character  in  this  story  was,  as  person- 
ages in  historical  novels  often  are,  made  up  out  of  two 
originals.*      This  was  Grip  the  Haven,  who,  after  seeing 

^  As  there  is  hardly  a  character  in  the  whole  world  of  fiction  and 
the  drama  without  some  sort  of  a  literary  predecessor,  so  Dickens 
may  have  derived  the  first  notion  of  Grip  from  the  raven  Ralpho— 
likewise  the  property  of  an  idiot— who  frightened  Roderick  Random 
and  Strap  out  of  their  wits,  and  into  the  belief  that  he  loas  the  per- 
sonage Grip  so  persistently  declared  himself  to  be. 


11.]  FROM  SUCCESS  TO  SUCCESS.  4Y 

the  idiot  hero  of  tLc  tale  safe  th rough  his  adventures,  re- 
sumed his  addresses  on  the  subject  of  the  kettle  to  the 
horses  in  the  stable ;  and  who,  "  as  he  was  a  mere  infant 
when  Barnaby  was  gray,  has  very  probably  gone  on  talk- 
ing to  the  present  time."  In  a  later  preface  to  Barnaby 
Rudge,  Dickens,  with  infinite  humour,  related  his  experi- 
ences of  the  two  originals  in  question,  and  how  he  had 
been  ravenless  since  the  mournful  death  before  the  kitchen 
fire  of  the  second  of  the  pair,  the  Grii^  of  actual  life.  This 
occurred  in  the  house  at  Devonshire  Terrace,  into  which 
the  family  had  moved  two  years  before  (in  1839). 

As  Dickens's  fame  advanced  his  circle  of  acquaintances 
was  necessarily  widened;  and  in  1841  he  was  invited  to 
visit  Edinburgh,  and  to  receive  there  the  first  great  tribute 
of  public  recognition  which  had  been  paid  to  him.  He 
was  entertained  with  great  enthusiasm  at  a  public  banquet, 
voted  the  freedom  of  the  city,  and  so  overwhelmed  with 
hospitalities  that,  notwithstanding  his  frank  pleasure  in 
these  honours,  he  was  glad  to  make  his  escape  at  last,  and 
refreshed  himself  with  a  tour  in  the  Highlands.  These 
excitements  may  have  intensified  in  him  a  desire  which 
had  for  some  time  been  active  in  his  mind,  and  which  in 
any  case  would  have  been  kept  alive  by  an  incessant  series 
of  invitations.  He  had  signed  an  agreement  with  his  pub- 
lishers for  a  new  book  before  this  desire  took  the  shape  of 
an  actual  resolution.  There  is  no  great  difficulty  in  under- 
standing why  Dickens  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Ameri- 
ca, and  thus  to  interrupt  for  the  moment  a  course  of  life 
and  work  which  was  fast  leading  him  on  to  great  heights 
of  fame  and  fortune.  The  question  of  international  copy- 
right alone  would  hardly  have  induced  him  to  cross  the 
seas.  Probably  he  felt  instinctively  that  to  see  men  and 
cities  was  part  of  the  training  as  well  as  of  the  recreation 


48  DICKENS.  [chap.  ii. 

wliicli  liis  genius  required.  Dickens  was  by  nature  one 
of  those  artists  who  when  at  w^ork  always  long  to  be  in 
sympathy  with  their  public,  and  to  know  it  to  be  in  sym- 
pathy with  them.  And  hitherto  he  had  not  met  more 
than  part  of  his  public  of  readers  face  to  face. 


CHAPTER  III. 

STRANGE    LANDS. 

[1842-1847.] 

A  JOURNEY  across  the  Atlantic  in  midwinter  is  no  child' s- 
play  even  at  the  present  day,  when,  bad  though  their 
passage  may  have  been,  few  people  would  venture  to 
confess  doubts,  as  Dickens  did,  concerning  the  safety  of 
such  a  voyage  by  steam  in  heavy  weather.  The  travellers 
— for  Dickens  was  accompanied  by  his  wife — had  an  ex- 
ceptionally rough  crossing,  the  horrors  of  which  he  has 
described  in  his  American  Notes.  His  powers  of  observa- 
tion were  alive  in  the  midst  of  the  lethargy  of  sea-sick- 
ness, and  when  he  could  not  watch  others  he  found 
enough  amusement  in  watching  himself.  At  last,  on 
January  28,  1842,  they  found  themselves  in  Boston 
harbour.  Their  stay  in  the  United  States  lasted  about 
four  months,  during  which  time  they  saw  Boston,  New 
York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,  Richmond, 
Cincinnati,  St.  Louis,  Chicago,  and  Buffalo.  Then  they 
passed  by  Niagara  into  Canada,  and  after  a  pleasant  visit 
to  Montreal,  diversified  by  private  theatricals  with  the  offi- 
cers there,  were  safe  at  home  again  in  July. 

Dickens  had  met  with  an  enthusiastic  welcome  in  every 
part  of  the  States  where  he  had  not  gone  out  of  the  way 
3* 


50  DICKENS.  [ciiAP. 

of  it;  in  New  York,  in  particular,  ho  had  been  feted, 
with  a  fervour  unique  even  in  the  history  of  American 
enthusiasms,  under  the  resounding  title  of  "the  Guest  of 
the  Nation."  Still,  even  this  imposed  no  moral  obligation 
upon  him  to  take  the  advice  tendered  to  him  in  America, 
and  to  avoid  writing  about  that  country — "  we  are  so  very 
suspicious."  On  the  other  hand,  whatever  might  be  his 
indignation  at  the  obstinate  unwillingness  of  the  American 
public  to  be  moved  a  hair's- breadth  by  his  championship 
of  the  cause  of  international  copyright,*  this  failure  could 
not,  in  a  mind  so  reasonable  as  his,  have  outweighed  the 
remembrance  of  the  kindness  sho\vii  to  him  and  to  his 
fame.  But  the  truth  seems  to  be  that  he  had,  if  not  at 
first,  at  least  very  speedily,  taken  a  dislike  to  American 
ways  which  proved  too  strong  for  him  to  the  last.  In 
strange  lands,  most  of  all  in  a  country  which,  like  the 
United  States,  is  not  in  the  least  ashamed  to  be  what  it  is, 
travellers  are  necessarily  at  the  outset  struck  by  details; 
and  Dickens's  habit  of  minute  observation  was  certain 
not  to  let  him  lose  many  of  them.  He  was  neither  long 
enough  in  the  country  to  study  very  closely,  nor  was  it 
in  his  way  to  ponder  very  deeply,  the  problems  involved 
in  the  existence  of  many  of  the  institutions  with  which 
he  found  fault.  Thus,  he  was  indignant  at  the  sight  of 
slavery,  and  even  ventured  to  "  tell  a  piece  of  his  mind  " 
on  the  subject  to  a  judge  in  the  South ;  but  when,  twenty 
years  later,  the  great  struggle  came,  at  the  root  of  which 
this  question  lay,  his  sympathies  were  with  the  cause  of 
disunion  and  slavery  in  its  conflict  with  the  "mad  and 

^  After  dining  at  a  party  including  the  son  of  an  eminent  man  of 
letters,  he  notes  in  his  Remembrancer  that  he  found  the  great  man's 
son  '*  decidedly  lumpish,"  and  appends  the  reflexion,  "  Copyrights 
need  be  hereditary,  for  genius  isn't." 


ra.]  STRANGE  L.VXDS.  51 

villanous"  North.  la  short,  his  knowledge  of  America 
and  its  affairs  was  gained  in  such  a  way  and  under  such 
circumstances  as  to  entitle  him,  if  he  chose,  to  speak  to 
the  vast  public  which  he  commanded  as  an  author  of  men 
and  manners  as  observed  by  him ;  but  he  had  no  right  to 
judge  the  destinies  and  denounce  the  character  of  a  great 
people  on  evidence  gathered  in  the  course  of  a  holiday 
tour. 

Nor,  indeed,  did  the  American  JVotes,  published  by  him 
after  his  return  home,  furnish  any  serious  cause  of  offence. 
In  an  introductory  chapter,  which  was  judiciously  sup- 
pressed, he  had  taken  credit  for  the  book  as  not  having 
"  a  grain  of  any  political  ingredient  in  its  whole  composi- 
tion." Indeed,  the  contents  were  rather  disappointing 
from  their  meagreness.  The  author  showed  good  taste 
in  eschewing  all  reference  to  his  personal  reception,  and 
good  judgment  in  leaving  the  copyright  question  undis- 
cussed. But  though  his  descriptions  were  as  vivid  as 
usual — w^hether  of  the  small  steamboat,  "  of  about  half  a 
pony  power,"  on  the  Connecticut  river,  or  of  the  dismal 
scenery  on  the  Mississippi,  "great  father  of  rivers,  who 
(praise  be  to  Heaven)  has  no  young  children  like  him !" — 
and  though  some  of  the  figure-sketches  were  touched  off 
with  the  happiest  of  hands,  yet  the  public,  even  in  1842, 
was  desirous  to  learn  something  more  about  America  than 
this.  It  is  true  that  Dickens  had,  with  his  usual  conscien- 
tiousness, examined  and  described  various  interesting  pub- 
lic institutions  in  the  States — prisons,  asylums,  and  the 
like ;  but  the  book  was  not  a  very  full  one ;  it  was  hardly 
anything  but  a  sketch-book,  with  more  humour,  but  with 
infinitely  less  poetic  spirit,  than  the  Sketch-book  of  the 
illustrious  American  author  whose  friendship  had  been 
one  of  the  chief  personal  gains  of  Dickens's  journey. 


52  DICKENS.  [chap. 

The  American  Notes,  for  which  the  letters  to  Forster 
had  furnished  ample  materials,  were  published  in  the  year 
of  Dickens's  return,  after  he  had  refreshed  himself  with  a 
merry  Cornish  trip  in  the  company  of  his  old  friend,  and 
his  two  other  intimates,  "  Stanny  "  and  "  Mac."  But  he 
had  not  come  home,  as  he  had  not  gone  out,  to  be  idle. 
On  the  first  day  of  the  following  year,  1843,  appeared  the 
first  number  of  the  story  which  was  to  furnish  the  real 
casus  discriininis  between  Dichens  and  the  enemies,  as 
well  no  doubt  as  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  friends, 
whom  he  had  left  behind  him  across  the  water.  The 
American  scenes  in  Martin  Ckuzzlewit  did  not,  it  is  true, 
begin  till  the  fifth  number  of  the  story ;  nor  is  it  probable 
from  the  accounts  of  the  sale,  which  was  much  smaller 
than  Dickens  had  expected,  that  these  particular  episodes 
at  first  produced  any  strong  feeling  in  the  English  public. 
But  the  merits  of  the  book  gradually  obtained  for  it  a 
popularity  at  home  which  has  been  surpassed  by  that  of 
but  one  or  two  other  of  Dickens's  works ;  and  in  propor- 
tion to  this  popularity  was  the  effect  exercised  by  its 
American  chapters.  What  that  effect  has  been,  it  would 
be  hypocrisy  to  question. 

Dickens,  it  is  very  clear,  had  been  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  at  once  drawing  upon  the  vast  addition  to 
his  literary  capital  as  a  humourist.  That  the  satire  of 
many  of  the  American  scenes  in  Martin  Ckuzzlewit  is,  as 
satire,  not  less  true  than  telling,  it  needs  but  a  small  ac- 
quaintance with  American  journalism  and  oratory  even  at 
the  present  day  to  perceive ;  and  the  heartrending  history 
of  Eden,  as  a  type  of  some  of  the  settlements  "  vaunted 
in  England  as  a  mine  of  Golden  Hope,"  at  least  had  the 
warrant  of  something  more  than  hearsay  and  a  look  in 
passing.     Nor,  as  has  already  been  observed,  would  it  have 


in.]  '  STRANGE  LANDS.  53 

been  in  accordance  either  with  human  nature,  or  with  the 
fitness  of  things,  had  Dickens  allowed  his  welcome  in 
America  to  become  to  him  (as  he  termed  it  in  the  sup- 
pressed Preface  to  the  Notes)  "  an  iron  muzzle  disguised 
beneath  a  flower  or  two."  But  the  frankness,  to  say  the 
least,  of  the  mirror  into  which  he  now  invited  his  late 
hosts  to  gaze  w-as  not  likely  to  produce  grateful  compli- 
ments to  its  presenter,  nor  was  the  effect  softened  by  the 
despatch  with  which  this  souvenir  of  the  "guest  of  the 
nation"  was  pressed  upon  its  attention.  No  doubt  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  reflect  that  only  the  evil,  not  the 
good,  sides  of  social  life  in  America  were  held  up  to  deri- 
sion and  contempt,  and  that  an  honourable  American  jour- 
nalist had  no  more  reason  to  resent  the  portraiture  of  Mr. 
Jefferson  Brick  than  a  virtuous  English  paterfamilias  had 
to  quarrel  with  that  of  Mr.  Pecksniff.  Unfortunately,  of- 
fence is  usually  taken  w^here  offence  is  meant ;  and  there 
can  be  little  doubt  as  to  the  animus  with  which  Pickens 
had  written.  Only  two  months  after  landing  at  Boston 
Dickens  had  declared  to  Macready,  that  '*  however  much 
he  liked  the  ingredients  of  this  great  dish,  he  could  not 
but  say  that  the  dish  itself  went  against  the  grain  with 
him,  and  that  he  didn't  like  it."  It  was  not,  and  could 
not  be,  pleasant  for  Americans  to  find  the  ^^Neiu  York  Sew- 
er, in  its  twelfth  thousand,  with  a  whole  column  of  New 
Yorkers  to  be  shown  up,  and  all  their  names  printed,"  in- 
troduced as  the  first  expression  of  "  the  bubbling  passions 
of  their  country  ;"  or  to  be  certified,  apropos  of  a  conver- 
sation among  American  "  gentlemen "  after  dinner,  that 
dollars,  and  dollars  only,  at  the. risk  of  honesty  and  hon- 
our, filled  their  souls.  "No  satirist,"  Martin  Chuzzlewit 
is  told  by  a  candid  and  open-minded  American,  "  could,  I 
believe,  breathe  this  air."     But  satire  in  such  passages  as 


54  DICKENS.  [chap. 

these  borders  too  closely  on  angry  invective ;  and  neither 
the  irresistible  force  nor  the  earnest  pathos  of  the  details 
which  follow  can  clear  away  the  suspicion  that  at  the  bot- 
tom lay  a  desire  to  depreciate.  Nor  was  the  general  effect 
of  the  American  episodes  in  Martin  Chuzzleiuit  materially 
modified  by  their  conclusion,  to  which,  with  the  best  of 
intentions,  the  author  could  not  bring  himself  to  give  a 
genuinely  complimentary  turn.  The  Americans  did  not 
like  all  this,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  like  it.  The 
tone  of  the  whole  satire  was  too  savage,  and  its  tenor  was 
too  hopelessly  one-sided,  for  it  to  pass  unresented  ;  while 
much  in  it  was  too  near  the  truth  to  glance  off  harmless. 
It  is  well  known  that  in  time  Dickens  came  himself  to  un- 
derstand this.  Before  quitting  America,  in  1868,  he  de- 
clared his  intention  to  publish  in  every  future  edition  of 
his  American  Notes  and  Martin  Chuzzlcivit  his  testimony 
to  the  magnanimous  cordiality  of  his  second  reception  in 
the  States,  and  to  the  amazing  changes  for  the  better 
which  he  had  seen  everywhere  around  him  during  his 
second  sojourn  in  the  country.  But  it  is  not  likely  that 
the  postscript,  all  the  more  since  it  was  added  under  cir- 
cumstances so  honourable  to  both  sides,  has  undone,  or 
will  undo,  the  effect  of  the  text.  Very  possibly  the  Amer- 
icans may,  in  the  eyes  of  the  English  people  as  well  as  in 
their  own,  cease  to  be  chargeable  with  the  faults  and  foi- 
bles satirised  by  Dickens;  but  the  satire  i+~^lf  will  live, 
and  will  continue  to  excite  laughter  and  loainmg,  together 
with  the  other  satire  of  the  powerful  book  to  which  it 
belongs. 

For  in  none  of  his  books  is  that  power,  which  at  times 
filled  their  author  himself  with  astonishment,  more  strik- 
ingly and  abundantly  revealed  than  in  The  Life  and  Ad- 
ventures of  Martin  Chuzzlewit.     Never  was  his  inventive 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  55 

force  more  flexible  and  more  at  his  command ;  yet  none 
of  his  books  cost  him  more  hard  work.  The  very  names  of 
hero  and  novel  were  only  the  final  fortunate  choice  out  of 
a  legion  of  notions ;  though  "  Pecksniff  "  as  well  as  "  Char- 
ity "  and  "  Mercy  "  ("not  unholy  names,  I  hope,"  said  Mr. 
Pecksniff  to  Mrs.  Todgers)  were  first  inspirations.  The 
MS.  text  too  is  full  of  the  outward  signs  of  care.  But 
the  author  had  his  reward  in  the  general  impression  of 
finish  which  is  conveyed  by  this  book  as  compared  with 
its  predecessors ;  so  that  Martin  Chuzzleioit  may  be  de- 
scribed as  already  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Dickens's 
maturity  as  a  writer.  Oddly  enough,  the  one  part  of  the 
book  which  moves  rather  heavily  is  the  opening  chapter, 
an  effort  in  the  mock-heroic,  probably  suggested  by  the 
author's  eighteenth  century  readings. 

A  more  original  work,  however,  than  Martin  Chuzzlewit 
was  never  composed,  or  one  which  more  freshly  displays 
the  most  characteristic  qualities  of  its  author's  genius. 
Though  the  actual  construction  of  the  story  is  anything 
but  faultless — for  what  could  be  more  slender  than  the 
thread  by  which  the  American  interlude  is  attached  to 
the  main  action,  or  more  wildly  improbable  than  the  haz- 
ardous stratagem  of  old  Martin  upon  which  that  action 
turns? — yet  it  is  so  contrived  as  to  fulfil  the  author's 
avowed  intention  of  exhibiting  under  various  forms  the 
evil  and  the.fplly  of  selfishness.  This  vice  is  capable  of 
both  serioub  and  comic  treatment,  and  commended  itself 
in  each  aspect  to  Dickens  as  being  essentially  antagonistic 
to  his  moral  and  artistic  ideals  of  human  life.  A  true 
comedy  of  humours  thus  unfolded  itself  with  the  progress 
of  his  book,  and  one  for  which  the  types  had  not  been 
fetched  from  afar :  "  Your  homes  the  scene ;  yourselves 
the  actors  here,"  had  been  the  motto  which  he  had  at  first 


56 


DICKENS.  [chap. 


intended  to  put  upon  bis  title-page.  Thus,  while  in  "  the 
old-established  firm  of  Anthony  Chuzzlewit  and  Son"  self- 
ishness is  cultivated  as  a  growth  excellent  in  itself,  and  the 
son's  sentiment,  "  Do  other  men,  for  they  would  do  you," 
is  applauded  by  his  admiring  father,  in  young  Martin  the 
vice  rather  resembles  a  weed  strong  and  rank,  yet  not  so 
strong  but  that  it  gives  way  at  last  before  a  manly  en- 
deavour to  uproot  it.  The  character  of  the  hero,  though 
very  far  from  heroic,  is  worked  out  with  that  reliance 
upon  the  fellow-feeling  of  candid  readers  which  in  our 
great  novelists  of  the  eighteenth  century  has  obtained 
sympathy  for  much  less  engaging  personages.  More  es- 
pecially is  the  young  man's  loss  of  self-respect  in  the  sea- 
son of  his  solitary  wretchedness  depicted  with  admirable 
feelinsc.  It  would  not,  I  think,  be  fanciful  to  assert  that 
in  this  story  Dickens  has  with  equal  skill  distinguished  be- 
tween two  species  of  unselfishness.  Mark  Tapley's  is  the 
actively  unselfish  nature,  and  though  his  reiteration  of  his 
guiding  motive  is  wearisome  and  occasionally  absurd,  yet 
the  power  of  coming  out  jolly  under  unpropitious  cir- 
cumstances is  a  genuinely  English  ideal  of  manly  virtue. 
Tom  Pinch's  character,  on  the  other  hand,  is  unselfish  from 
innate  sweetness ;  and  never  has  the  art  of  Dickens  drawn 
a  type  which,  while  closely  approaching  the  border-line  of 
the  grotesque,  is  yet  so  charmingly  true  to  nature. 

Grotesque  characters  proper  are  numerous  enough  in 
this  book,  but  all  the  others  pale  before  the  immortal 
presence  of  Mrs.  Gamp.  She  had  been  traced  to  an  orig- 
inal in  real  life,  but  her  literary  right  to  stand  on  her  own 
legs  has  been  most  properly  vindicated  against  any  suppo- 
sition of  likeness  to  the  different  type,  the  subject  of  Leigh 
Hunt's  Monthly  Nurse — a  paper,  by-the-way,  distinguished 
by  shrewdness  as  well  as  feeling.     Iraao-ination  has  never 


III.]  STRAXGE  LAXDS.  57 

taken  bolder  flights  than  those  requisite  for  the  develop- 
ment of  Mrs.  Gamp's  mental  processes : 

" '  And  which  of  all  them  smoking  monsters  is  the  Ankworks 
boat,  I  wonder  ?     Goodness  me !'  cried  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"  '  What  boat  did  you  want  ?'  asked  Ruth. 

"  '  The  Ankworks  package,'  Mrs.  Gamp  replied.  '  I  will  not  de- 
ceive you,  my  sweet.     Why  should  I  ?' 

" '  That  is  the  Antwerp  packet  in  the  middle,'  said  Ruth. 

*"And  I  wish  it  was  in  Jonadge's  belly,  I  do!'  cried  Mrs.  Gamp, 
appearing  to  confound  the  prophet  with  the  whale  in  this  miraculous 
aspiration." 

A  hardly  inferior  exertion  of  creative  power  was  needed 
in  order  to  fix  in  distinct  forms  the  peculiarities  of  her 
diction,  nay,  to  sustain  the  unique  rhythm  of  her  speech: 

"  *  I  says  to  Mrs.  Harris,'  Mrs.  Gamp  continued, '  only  t'  other  day, 
the  last  Monday  fortnight  as  ever  dawned  upon  this  Piljian's  Projiss 
of  a  mortal  wale ;  I  says  to  Mrs.  Harris,  when  she  says  to  me,  "  Years 
and  our  trials,  Mrs.  Gamp,  sets  marks  upon  us  all" — "Say  not  the 
words,  Mrs.  Harris,  if  you  and  me  is  to  be  continual  friends,  for  sech 
is  not  the  case." '  " 

Yet  the  reality  of  Mrs.  Gamp  has  been  acknowledged  to 
be  such  that  she  has  been  the  death  of  her  sisterhood  in  a 
great  part  (to  say  the  least)  of  our  hospital  wards  and  sick- 
rooms ;  and  as  for  her  oddities  of  tongue,  they  arc,  with 
the  exception  of  her  boldest  figures,  but  the  glorified  type 
of  all  the  utterances  heard  to  this  day  from  charwomen, 
laundresses,  and  single  gentlemen's  house-keepers.  Com- 
pared with  her,  even  her  friend  and  patron,  Mr.  Mould,  and 
her  admirer,  Mr.  Bailey,  and  in  other  parts  of  the  book  the 
low  company  at  Todgers's  and  the  fine  company  at  Mr. 
Tigg  Montague's  sink  into  insignificance.  The  aged 
Chuffey  is  a  grotesque  study  of  a  very  different  kind,  of 
which  the  pathos  never  loses  itself  in  exaggeration.     As 


68  DICKENS.  [chap. 

for  Pecksniff,  lie  is  as  far  out  of  the  range  of  grotesque 
as,  except  when  moralising  over  the  banisters  at  Todgers's, 
he  is  out  of  that  of  genial  characters.  He  is  the  richest 
comic  type,  while  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  truest, 
among  the  innumerable  reproductions  in  English  imagina- 
tive literature  of  our  favourite  national  vice — hypocrisy. 
His  friendliness  is  the  very  quintessence  of  falsehood: 
*'  Mr.  Pinch,"  he  cries  to  poor  Tom  over  the  currant-wine 
and  captain's  biscuits,  "  if  you  spare  the  bottle,  we  shall 
quarrel !"  His  understanding  with  his  daughters  is  the 
very  perfection  of  guile,  for  they  confide  in  him,  even  when 
ignorant  of  his  intentions,  because  of  their  certainty  "  that 
in  all  he  does  he  has  his  purpose  straight  and  full  before 
him."  And  he  is  a  man  who  understands  the  times  as 
well  as  the  land  in  which  he  lives;  for,  as  M.  Taine  has 
admirably  pointed  out,  where  Tartuffc  would  have  been 
full  of  religious  phrases,  Pecksniff  presents  himself  as  a 
humanitarian  philosopher.  Comic  art  has  never  more  suc- 
cessfully fulfilled  its  highest  task  after  its  truest  fashion 
than  in  this  picture  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  creature  who 
never  ceases  to  be  laughable,  and  yet  never  ceases  to  be 
loathsome.  Nothing  is  wanting  in  this  wonderful  book  to 
attest  the  exuberance  of  its  author's  genius.  The  kindly 
poetic  spirit  of  the  Christmas  books  breathes  in  sweet 
Ruth  Pinch ;  and  the  tragic  power  of  the  closing  chapters 
of  Oliver  Twist  is  recalled  by  the  picture  of  Jonas  before 
and  after  his  deed  of  blood.  I  say  nothing  of  merely  de- 
scriptive passages,  though  in  none  of  his  previous  stories 
had  Dickens  so  completely  mastered  the  secret  of  describ- 
ing scenery  and  weather  in  their  relation  to  his  action  or 
his  characters. 

Martin  Chuzzleivit  ran  its  course  of  twenty  monthly 
numbers;  but  already  a  week  or  two  before  the  appear- 


m.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  59 

ance  of  the  first  of  these,  Dictens  had  bestowed  upon  the 
public,  young  and  old,  the  earliest  of  his  delightful  Christ- 
mas Books.  Among  all  his  productions  perhaps  none 
connected  him  so  closely,  and  as  it  were  personally,  with 
his  readers.  Nor  could  it  well  have  been  otherwise;  since 
nowhere  was  he  so  directly  intent  upon  promoting  kindli- 
ness of  feeling  among  men  —  more  especially  good-will, 
founded  upon  respect,  towards  the  poor.  Cheerfulness 
was,  from  his  point  of  view,  twin -sister  to  charity;  and 
sulkiness,  like  selfishness,  belonged,  as  an  appropriate  ort, 
to  the  dust-heap  of  "  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground."  What  more 
fit  than  that  he  should  mingle  such  sentiments  as  these 
with  the  holly  and  the  mistletoe  of  the  only  English  holi- 
day in  which  remains  a  vestige  of  religious  and  poetic 
feeling?  Beyond  all  doubt  there  is  much  that  is  tedious 
in  the  cultus  of  Father  Christmas,  and  there  was  yet  more 
in  the  days  when  the  lower  classes  in  England  had  not  yet 
come  to  look  upon  a  sufficiency  of  periodical  holidays  as 
part  of  their  democratic  inheritance.  But  that  Dickens 
should  constitute  himself  its  chief  minister  and  interpreter 
was  nothing  but  fit.  Already  one  of  the  Sketches  had 
commended  a  Christmas  -  dinner  at  which  a  seat  is  not 
denied  even  to  "  poor  Aunt  Margaret ;"  and  Mr.  Pickwick 
had  never  been  more  himself  than  in  the  Christmas  game 
of  Blind-man's-buff  at  Dingley  Dell,  in  which  "  the  poor 
relations  caught  the  people  who  they  thought  would  like 
it,"  and,  w^hen  the  game  flagged,  ^'  got  caught  themselves." 
But  he  now  sought  to  reach  the  heart  of  the  subject ;  and 
the  freshness  of  his  fancy  enabled  him  delightfully  to  vary 
his  illustrations  of  a  text  of  which  it  can  do  no  man  harm 
to  be  reminded  in  as  well  as  out  of  season. 

Dickens's  Christmas  books  were  published  in  the  Christ- 
mas seasons  of  1843-1846,  and  of  1848.     If  the  palm  is 


GO 


DICKENS.  [chap. 


to  be  granted  to  any  one  among  tliem  above  its  fellows, 
few  readers  would  hesitate,  I  think,  to  declare  themselves 
in  favour  of  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth^  as  tender  and  deli- 
cate a  domestic  idyl  as  any  literature  can  boast.  But  the 
informing  spirit  proper  of  these  productions,  the  desire  to 
stir  up  a  feeling  of  benevolence,  more  especially  towards 
the  poor  and  lowly,  nowhere  shows  itself  more  conspicu- 
ously than  in  the  earliest,  A  Christmas  Carol  in  Prose, 
and  nowhere  more  combatively  than  in  the  second  in 
date,  the  "  Goblin  Story  "  of  The  Chimes.  Of  the  former 
its  author  declared  that  he  "  wept  and  laughed  and  wept 
again  "  over  it,  "  and  excited  himself  in  a  most  extraordi- 
nary manner  in  the  composition  ;  and  thinhing  thereof  he 
walked  about  the  black  streets  of  London,  fifteen  and 
twenty  miles  many  a  night,  when  all  the  sober  folks  had 
gone  to  bed."  Simple  in  its  romantic  design  like  one  of 
Andersen's  little  talcs,  the  Christmas  Carol  has  never  lost 
its  hold  upon  a  public  in  whom  it  has  called  forth  Christ- 
mas thoughts  which  do  not  all  centre  on  "holly, mistletoe, 
red  berries,  ivy,  turkeys,  geese,  game,  poultry,  brawn,  meat, 
pigs,  sausages,  oysters,  pies,  puddings,  fruit,  and  punch ;" 
and  the  Cratchit  household,  with  Tiny  Tim,  who  did  not 
die,  are  living  realities  even  to  those  who  have  not  seen 
Mr.  Toole — an  actor  after  Dickens's  own  heart  —  as  the 
father  of  the  family,  shivering  in  his  half-yard  of  com- 
forter. 

In  The  CAmes,  composed  in  self-absorbed  solitude  at 
Genoa,  he  imagined  that  "  he  had  written  a  tremendous 
book,  and  knocked  the  Carol  out  of  the  field."  Though 
the  little  work  failed  to  make  "  the  great  uproar  "  he  had 
confidently  anticipated,  its  purpose  was  certainly  unmis- 
takable ;  but  the  effect  of  hard  exaggerations  such  as  Mr. 
Filer  and  Alderman  Cute,  and  of  a  burlesque  absurdity 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  61 

like  Sir  Joseph  Bowley,  was  too  dreary  to  be  counteracted 
by  the  more  pleasing  passages  of  the  tale.  In  his  novel 
Hard  Times  Dickens  afterwards  reproduced  some  of  the 
ideas,  and  repeated  some  of  the  artistic  mistakes,  to  be 
found  in  The  Chimes,  though  the  design  of  the  later  work 
was  necessarily  of  a  more  mixed  kind.  The  Christmas 
book  has  the  tone  of  a  doctrinaire  protest  against  doctri- 
naires, and,  as  Forster  has  pointed  out,  is  manifestly  writ- 
ten under  the  influence  of  Carlyle.  But  its  main  doctrine 
was  one  which  Dickens  lost  no  opportunity  of  proclaim- 
ing, and  which  here  breaks  forth  in  the  form  of  an  indig- 
nant appeal  by  Richard  Fern,  the  outlaw  in  spite  of  him- 
self :  "  Gentlefolks,  be  not  hard  upon  the  poor !"  No  feel- 
ing was  more  deeply  rooted  in  Dickens's  heart  than  this ; 
nor  could  he  forbear  expressing  it  by  invective  and  satire 
as  well  as  by  humorous  and  pathetic  pictures  of  his 
clients,  among  whom  Trotty  Veck  too  takes  a  representa- 
tive place. 

The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  as  a  true  work  of  art,  is  not 
troubled  about  its  moral,  easily  though  half-a-dozen  plain 
morals  might  be  drawn  from  it;  a  purer  and  more  light- 
some creation  of  the  fancy  has  never  been  woven  out  of 
homespun  materials.  Of  the  same  imaginative  type, 
though  not  executed  with  a  fineness  so  surpassing,  is  The 
Battle  of  Life,  the  treatment  of  a  fancy  in  which  Dickens 
appears  to  have  taken  great  pleasure.  Indeed,  he  declared 
that  he  was  "thoroughly  wretched  at  having  to  use  the 
idea  for  so  short  a  story."  As  it  stands,  it  is  a  pretty 
idyl  of  resignation,  very  poetical  in  tone  as  well  as  in 
conception,  though  here  and  there,  notwithstanding  the 
complaint  just  quoted,  rather  lengthy.  It  has  been  con- 
jectured, with  much  probability,  that  the  success  which 
had    attended    dramatic    versions    of    Dickens's    previous 


62  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Christmas  books  caused  "  tliose  admirable  comedians,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Kceley,"  to  be  in  his  mind  "  when  he  drew  the 
charming  characters  of  Britain  and  Clemency  Newcome." 
At  all  events  the  pair  serve  as  good  old  bits  of  English 
pottery  to  relieve  the  delicate  Sevres  sentiment  of  Grace 
and  Marion.  In  the  last  of  Dickens's  Christmas  books, 
The  Haunted  Man  and  the  Ghosfs  Bargain,  he  returns 
once  more  to  a  machinery  resembling  those  of  the  earliest. 
But  the  fancy  on  which  the  action  turns  is  here  more 
forced,  and  the  truth  which  it  illustrates  is  after  all  only  a 
half-truth,  unless  taken  as  part  of  the  greater  truth,  that 
the  moral  conditions  of  man's  life  are  more  easily  marred 
than  mended.  Once  more  the  strength  of  the  book  lies 
in  its  humorous  side.  The  picture  of  the  good  Milly's 
humble  proteges,  the  Tetterby  family,  is  to  remind  us  that 
happiness  consists  precisely  in  that  which  the  poor  and 
the  rich  may  alike  obtain,  but  which  it  is  so  difficult  for 
the  poor,  amidst  their  shifts  and  shabbincss,  to  keep  fresh 
and  green.  Even  without  the  evil  influence  of  an  enchant- 
ed chemist,  it  is  hard  enough  for  the  Mrs.  Tettcrbys  of 
real  life  always  to  be  ministering  angels  to  their  families ; 
for  the  hand  of  every  little  Tetterby  not  occasionally  to 
be  against  the  other  little  Tetterbys,  and  even  for  a  de- 
voted Johnny's  temper  never  to  rise  against  Moloch.  All 
the  more  is  that  to  be  cherished  in  the  poor  which  makes 
them  love  one  another. 

More  than  one  of  these  Christmas  books,  both  the  hu- 
mour and  the  sentiment  of  which  are  so  peculiarly  Eng- 
lish, w^as  written  on  foreign  soil.  Dickens's  general  con- 
ceptions of  life,  not  less  than  his  literary  individuality, 
had  been  formed  before  he  became  a  traveller  and  so- 
journer in  foreign  lands.  In  Italy,  as  elsewhere,  a  man 
will,  in   a  sense,  find  only  what  he  takes  there.     At  all 


III.]  STRAXGE  LANDS.  63 

events  the  changed  life  brought  Avitli  it  for  Dickens, 
though  not  at  once,  a  refreshment  and  a  brief  repose 
which  invigorated  him  for  some  of  the  truest  efforts  of 
his  genius.  Ilis  resohition  to  spend  some  time  on  the 
Continent  had  not  been  tahen  rashly,  although  it  was  at 
least  hastened  by  business  disappointments.  lie  seems  at 
this  time,  as  was  virtually  inevitable,  to  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  society  in  London,  and  more  especially  to  have 
become  a  welcome  guest  of  Lady  Blessington  and  Count 
d'Orsay  at  Gore  House.  Moreover,  his  services  were  be- 
ginning to  be  occasionally  claimed  as  a  public  speaker; 
and  altogether  he  must  have  found  more  of  his  time  than 
he  washed  slipping  through  his  hands.  Lastly,  he  very 
naturally  desired  to  see  what  was  to  be  seen,  and  to  enjoy 
what  was  to  be  enjoyed,  by  one  gifted  with  a  sleepless  ob- 
servation and  animated  by  a  genuine  love  of  nature  and 
art.  The  letters,  public  and  private,  which  he  wrote  from 
Italy,  are  not  among  the  most  interesting  productions  of 
his  pen ;  even  his  humour  seems  now  and  then  ill  at  ease 
in  them,  and  his  descriptive  power  narrow  in  its  range. 
His  eyes  were  occasionally  veiled,  as  are  those  of  most 
travellers  in  quest  of  "first  impressions."  Thus  I  cannot 
but  think  his  picture  of  Naples  inadequate,  and  that  of 
its  population  unjust.  Again,  although  he  may  have  told 
the  truth  in  asserting  that  the  Eternal  City,  at  first  sight, 
"looked  like — I  am  half  afraid  to  write  the  word — like 
London,"  and  although  his  general  description  of  Rome 
has  been  pronounced  correct  by  competent  judgment,  yet 
it  is  impossible  to  ignore  in  it  the  undertone  of  Bow 
Bells.  On  the  other  hand,  not  even  in  his  newspaper 
letters  can  he  be  said  to  fall  into  affectation ;  his  impres- 
sions are  never  given  pretentiously,  and  arc  accordingly 
seldom  altogether  worthless;  while  his  criticisms  of  works 


64  DICKENS.  [chap. 

of  art,  wlicn  offered,  are  candid  and  shrewd,  besides  being 
invariably  his  own. 

Thus,  there  was  never  anything  truer  in  its  way  than 
the  account  which  he  gave  to  Maclise  of  his  first  impres- 
sions a  few  days  after  his  arrival  at  Albaro,  a  suburb  of 
Genoa,  where  he  found  himself  settled  with  his  family  in 
July,  1844.  He  re-christened  his  abode,  the  Villa  Bagne- 
rello  ("it  sounds  romantic,  but  Signor  Banderello  is  a 
butcher  hard  by  "),  "  the  Pink  Jail."  Here,  with  abun- 
dance of  space  and  time,  and  with  a  view  from  his  writ- 
ing-table of  "  the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  washed-out  vil- 
las, the  vineyards,  the  blistering  hot  fort,  with  a  sentry 
on  the  drawbridge  standing  in  a  bit  of  shadow  no  broad- 
er than  his  own  musket,  and  the  sky,"  he  began  his  vil- 
leggiatura,  and  resolving  not  to  know,  or  to  be  known 
where  it  could  be  helped,  looked  round  him  at  his  leisure. 
This  looking  round  very  naturally  took  up  some  time ;  for 
the  circuit  of  Dickens's  daily  observation  was  unusually 
wide.  Soon  he  was  seeking  winter-quarters  in  Genoa  it- 
self, and  by  October  was  established  in  the  Palazzo  Pes- 
chiere,  situate  on  a  height  within  the  walls  of  the  city, 
and  overlooking  the  ^Yhole  of  it,  with  the  harbour  and 
the  sea  beyond.  "There  is  not  in  Italy,  they  say  (and  I 
believe  them),  a  lovelier  residence."  Even  here,  however, 
among  fountains  and  frescoes,  it  was  some  time  before  he 
could  set  steadily  to  work  at  his  Christmas  story.  At  last 
the  bells  of  Genoa  chimed  a  title  for  it  into  his  restless 
cars;  and,  though  longing  with  a  nostalgy  that  was  spe- 
cially strong  upon  him  at  periods  of  mental  excitement  for 
his  nightly  walks  in  the  London  streets,  he  settled  down  to 
his  task.  I  have  already  described  the  spirit  in  which  he 
executed  it.  No  sooner  was  the  writing  done  than  the 
other  half  of  his  double  artist-nature  was  seized  with  an- 


m]  STRANGE  LANDS.  65 

other  craving.  The  rage  which  possesses  authors  to  read 
their  writings  aloud  to  sympathizing  ears,  if  such  can  be 
found,  is  a  well-worn  theme  of  satire ;  but  in  Dickens  the 
actor  was  almost  as  strong  as  the  author,  and  he  could  not 
withstand  the  desire  to  interpret  in  person  what  he  had 
written,  and  to  watch  its  effect  with  his  own  eyes  and  ears. 
In  the  first  days  of  November,  therefore,  he  set  off  from 
Genoa,  and  made  his  way  home  by  Bologna,  Venice,  Milan, 
and  the  Simplon  Pass.  Of  this  journey  his  Pictures  from 
Italy  contains  the  record,  including  a  chapter  about  Ven- 
ice, pitched  in  an  unusually  poetic  key.  But  not  all  the 
memories  of  all  the  Doges  could  have  stayed  the  execu- 
tion of  his  set  purpose.  On  the  30th  of  November  he 
reached  London,  and  on  the  2d  of  December  he  was  read- 
ing the  Chimes,  from  the  proofs,  to  the  group  of  friends 
immortalised  in  Maclise's  inimitable  sketch.  Three  days 
afterwards  the  reading  was  repeated  to  a  slightly  different 
audience ;  and,  indeed,  it  would  seem,  from  an  enthusias- 
tic postscript  to  a  letter  addressed  to  his  wife,  that  he  had 
read  at  least  part  of  the  book  to  Macready  on  the  night 
before  that  of  the  first  conclave.  The  distance  was  no 
doubt  wide  between  the  intimacy  of  these  friendly  read- 
ings and  the  stormy  seas  of  public  audiences;  but,  how- 
ever unconsciously,  the  first  step  had  been  taken.  It  may 
be  worth  noticing,  in  connexion  with  this,  that  the  scheme 
of  a  private  dramatic  performance,  which  was  to  occupy 
much  of  Dickens's  "  leisure "  in  the  year  following,  was 
proposed  for  the  first  time  on  the  occasion  of  the  first 
reading  of  the  Chimes.  Before  Christmas  he  was  back 
again  in  his  "  Italian  bowers."  If  the  strain  of  his  effort 
in  writing  the  Chimes  had  been  severe,  the  holiday  which 
followed  was  long.  In  the  later  winter  and  early  spring 
of  1845  he  and  the  ladies  of  his  family  saw  Rome  and 
4 


66  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Naples,  and  in  June  tbeir  Italian  life  came  to  an  end,  and 
they  were  in  London  before  the  close  of  the  month.  Proj- 
ects of  work  remained  in  abeyance  until  the  absorbing 
fancy  of  a  private  play  had  been  realised  with  an  earnest- 
ness such  as  only  Dickens  could  carry  into  his  amuse- 
ments, and  into  this  particular  amusement  above  all  oth- 
ers. The  play  was  Every  Man  in  his  Humour;  the  thea- 
tre, the  little  house  in  Dean  Street,  of  whose  chequered 
fortunes  no  theatrical  history  has  succeeded  in  exhaust- 
ing the  memories ;  and  the  manager  was,  of  course,  "Bob- 
adil,"  as  Dickens  now  took  to  signing  himself.  His  jok- 
ing remark  to  Macready,  that  he  "  thought  of  changing 
his  present  n.^de  of  life,  and  was  open  to  an  engagement," 
was  after  all  not  so  very  wide  of  the  mark.  According 
to  the  inevitable  rule  in  such  things,  he  and  his  friends 
— among  whom  Mark  Lemon,  Douglas  Jerrold,  and  Fors- 
ter  were  conspicuous  —  were  "induced"  to  repeat  their 
performance  at  a  larger  house  for  a  public  charity,  and 
later  in  the  year  they  played  The  Elder  Brother  for  Miss 
Fanny  Kelly's  benefit.  Leigh  Hunt,  whose  opinion,  how- 
ever, could  hardly  fail  to  be  influenced  by  the  circumstances 
under  which  Ben  Jon  son's  comedy  was  afterwards  per- 
formed by  the  amateurs,  and  who  was  no  longer  the 
youthful  Draco  of  the  Nezvs,  afterwards  spoke  very  high- 
ly of  Dickens's  Bobadil.  It  had  *'  a  spirit  in  it  of  intel- 
lectual apprehension  beyond  anything  the  existing  stage 
has  shown."  His  acting  in  the  farce  which  followed 
Leigh  Hunt  thought  "throughout  admirable;  quite  rich 
and  filled  up." 

Christmas,  1845,  had  passed,  and  The  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth  had  graced  the  festival,  when  an  altogether  new 
chapter  in  Dickens's  life  seemed  about  to  open  for  him. 
The  experience  through  which  he  now  passed  was  one  on 


ni.]  STRANGE  LANDS,  67 

which  his  biographer,  for  reasons  easy  to  guess,  has  touch- 
ed very  slightly,  while  his  Letters  throw  no  additional 
light  on  it  at  all.  Most  people,  I  imagine,  would  decline 
to  pronounce  upon  the  qualifications  requisite  in  an  editor 
of  a  great  political  journal.  Yet,  literary  power  of  a  kind 
which  acts  upon  the  multitude  rapidly  and  powerfully, 
habits  of  order  so  confirmed  as  to  have  almost  become 
second  nature,  and  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation 
fed  by  an  ardent  enthusiasm  for  its  welfare — these  would 
seem  to  go  some  way  towards  mating  up  the  list.  Of  all 
these  qualifications  Pickens  at  various  times  gave  proof, 
and  they  suflSced  in  later  years  to  make  him  the  successful 
conductor  of  a  weekly  journal  which  aimed^-wit  the  enlight- 
enment hardly  less  than  at  the  entertainment  of  no  incon- 
siderable portion  of  the  British  public.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  political  journalism  proper  is  a  craft  of  which  very 
few  men  have  been  known  to  become  n:q\sters  by  intui- 
tion, and  Dickens  had  as  yet  had  no  real  experience  of  it. 
His  zealous  efforts  as  a  reporter  can  hardly  be  taken  into 
account  here.  He  had  for  a  short  time  edited  a  miscel- 
lany of  amusement,  and  had  failed  to  carry  beyond  a  be- 
ginning the  not  very  carefully  considered  scheme  of  an- 
other. Recently,  he  had  resumed  the  old  notion  of  Mas- 
ter Humi^lireif  s  Clock  in  a  different  shape ;  but  nothing 
bad  come  of  his  projected  cheap  weekly  paper  for  the 
present,  while  its  title,  "  The  Cricket,^''  was  reserved  for  a 
different  use.  Since  his  reporting  days  he  had,  however, 
now  and  then  appeared  among  the  lighter  combatants  of 
political  literature.  In  1841  he  had  thrown  a  few  squibs 
in  the  Ej:aminer  at  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  the  Tories ;  and 
from  about  the  same  date  he  had,  besides  occasionally 
contributing  to  the  literary  and  theatrical  columns  of  the 
same  weekly  journal,  now  and  then  discussed  in  it  sub- 


G3 


DICKENS.  [chap. 


jccts  of  educational  or  other  general  interest.'  Finally,  it 
is  stated  by  Forstcr  that  in  1844,  when  the  greatest  polit- 
ical struggle  of  the  last  generation  was  approaching  its 
climax,  Dickens  contributed  some  articles  to  the  Morning 
Chronicle  which  attracted  attention  and  led  to  negotia- 
tions with  the  editor  that  arrived  at  no  positive  result.  If 
these  contributions  treated  any  political  questions  what- 
ever, they  were,  witli  the  exception  of  the  few  Examiner 
papers,  and  of  the  letters  to  the  Daily  Neivs  to  be  men- 
tioned in  this  chapter,  the  only  articles  of  this  kind  which, 
to  ray  knowledge,  he  ever  wrote. 

For,  from  first  to  last,  whether  in  the  days  when  Oliver 
Twist  suffered  under  the  maladministration  of  the  Poor- 
law,  or  in  those  when  Arthur  Clennam  failed  to  make  an 
impression  upon  the  Circumlocution  Ofiice,  politics  were 
with  Dickens  a  sentiment  rather  than  a  study  or  a  pursuit. 
With  his  habits  of  application  and  method,  it  might  have 
taken  but  a  very  short  time  for  him  to  train  himself  as  a 
politician  ;  but  this  short  time  never  actually  occurred. 
There  is,  however,  no  reason  to  suppose  that  when,  in 
1841,  a  feeler  was  put  out  by  some  more  or  less  influential 
persons  at  Reading,  with  regard  to  his  willingness  to  be 
nominated  for  the  representation  of  that  borough,  he  had 
any  reason  for  declining  the  proposal  besides  that  wdiich 
he  stated  in  his  replies.  He  could  not  afford  the  requisite 
expense;  and  he  was  determined  not  to  forfeit  his  inde- 
pendence through  accepting  Government — by  which  I  hope 
he  means  Whig  party — aid  for  meeting  the  cost  of  the 
contest.  Still,  in  1845,  though  slack  of  faith  in  the  "  peo- 
ple who  govern  us,"  he  had  not  yet  become  the  irreclaim- 

^  From  a  list  of  MSS.  at  South  Kensington,  kindly  furnished  me 
by  Mr.  R.  F.  Sketchley,  I  find  that  Mr.  R.  H.  Shepherd's  BiUiograploj 
of  Dickcm  is  incomplete  on  this  head. 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  69 

able  political  sceptic  of  later  days;  and  without  being  in 
any  ^Yay  bound  to  the  Whigs,  he  had  that  general  confi- 
dence in  Lord  John  Russell  which  was  all  they  could  ex- 
pect from  their  irregular  followers.  As  yet,  however,  he 
had  shown  no  sign  of  any  special  aptitude  or  inclination 
for  political  work,  though  if  he  addressed  himself  to  ques- 
tions affecting  the  health  and  happiness  of  the  humbler 
classes,  he  was  certain  to  bring  to  them  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  genuine  sympathy.  And  a  question  of  this  kind  was 
uppermost  in  Englishmen's  minds  in  this  year  1845,  when 
at  last  the  time  was  drawing  near  for  the  complete  aboli- 
tion of  the  tax  upon  the  staple  article  of  the  poor  man's 
daily  food. 

The  establishment  of  a  new  London  morning  paper,  on 
the  scale  to  which  those  already  in  existence  had  attained, 
was  a  serious  matter  in  itself ;  but  it  seems  to  have  been 
undertaken  in  no  spirit  of  diffidence  by  the  projectors  and 
first  proprietors  of  the  Daily  JVetvs.  With  the  early  his- 
tory of  the  experiment  I  cannot  here  concern  myself ;  it 
is,  however,  an  open  secret  that  the  rate  of  expenditure  of 
the  new  journal  was  at  first  on  a  most  liberal,  not  to  say 
lavish,  scale,  and  that  the  losses  of  the  proprietors  were  for 
many  years  very  large  indeed.  Established  on  those  prin- 
ciples of  Radicalism  which,  on  the  whole,  it  has  in  both 
good  and  evil  times  consistently  maintained,  the  Daily 
Neios  was  to  rise  superior  to  the  opportunism,  if  not  to 
the  advertisements,  of  the  Times,  and  to  outstrip  the  cau- 
tious steps  of  the  W^hig  Morning  Chronicle.  Special  at- 
tention was  to  be  given  to  those  industrial  enterprises  with 
which  the  world  teemed  in  that  speculative  age,  and  no 
doubt  also  to  those  social  questions  affecting  the  welfare 
and  elevation  of  the  masses  and  the  relations  between  em- 
ployers and  employed,  which  were  attracting  more  and 


70  DICKENS.  [chap. 

more  of  the  public  attention.  But  in  the, first  instance 
the  actual  political  situation  would  oblige  the  new  journal 
to  direct  the  greater  part  of  its  energies  to  one  particular 
question,  which  had,  in  truth,  already  been  threshed  out 
by  the  organs  of  public  opinion,  and  as  to  which  the  time 
for  action  had  at  last  arrived.  No  Liberal  journal  project- 
ed in  1845,  and  started  early  in  1846,  could  fail  to  con- 
centrate its  activity  for  a  time  upon  the  question  of  the 
Corn-laws,  to  which  the  session  of  184G  was  to  give  the 
death-blow. 

It  is  curious  enough,  on  opening  the  first  number  of  the 
Daily  JVeivs,  dated  January  21, 1846,  to  find  one's  self  trans- 
planted into  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  memorable  epi- 
sodes of  our  more  recent  political  history.  The  very  ad- 
vertisements of  subscriptions  to  the  Anti-Corn-law  League, 
with  the  good  old  Manchester  names  figuring  conspicuous- 
ly among  them,  have  a  historic  interest ;  and  the  report  of 
a  disputation  on  free-trade  at  Norwich,  in  which  all  the 
hits  are  made  by  Mr.  Cobden,  another  report  of  a  great 
London  meeting  on  the  same  subject,  and  some  verses  con- 
cerning the  people's  want  of  its  bread,  probably  written  by 
Mr.  Charles  Mackay,  occupy  an  entire  page  of  the  paper. 
Railway  news  and  accounts  of  railway  meetings  fill  about 
the  same  space ;  while  the  foreign  news  is  extremely  mea- 
gre. There  remain  the  leading  articles,  four  in  number — 
of  which  three  are  on  the  burning  question  of  the  day — 
and  the  first  of  a  series  of  Travelling  Letters  Written  on 
the  Road,  hy  Charles  Dickens  (the  Avignon  chapter  in  the 
Pictures  from  Italy.y     The  hand  of  the  editor  is  trace- 

^  By  an  odd  coincidence,  not  less  than  four  out  of  the  six  theatres 
advertising  their  performances  in  this  first  number  of  the  Daily  News 
announce  each  a  different  adaptation  of  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 
Amongst  the  curiosities  of  the  casts  are  observable :  At  the  Adelphi, 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  11 

able  only  in  this  feuilleton  and  in  the  opening  article  of 
the  new  paper.  On  internal  evidence  I  conclude  that  this 
article,  which  has  little  to  distinguish  it  from  similar  man- 
ifestoes, unless  it  be  a  moderation  of  tone  that  w^ould  not 
have  suited  Captain  Shandon,  was  not  written  by  Dickens 
alone  or  unassisted.  But  his  hand  is  traceable  in  the  con- 
cluding paragraphs,  which  contain  the  following  wordy  but 
spirited  assertion  of  a  cause  that  Dickens  lost  no  opportu- 
nity of  advocating : 

"We  seek,  so  far  as  in  us  lies,  to  elevate  the  character  of  the  Pub- 
lic Press  in  England.  We  believe  it  would  attain  a  much  higher  po- 
sition, and  that  those  who  wield  its  powers  would  be  infinitely  more 
respected  as  a  class,  and  an  important  one,  if  it  were  purged  of  a  dis- 
position to  sordid  attacks  upon  itself,  which  only  prevails  in  England 
and  America.  We  discern  nothing  in  the  editorial  plural  that  justi- 
tifies  a  gentleman,  or  body  of  gentlemen,  in  discarding  a  gentleman's 
forbearance  and  responsibility,  and  venting  ungenerous  spleen  against 
a  rival,  by  a  perversion  of  a  great  power — a  power,  however,  which  is 
only  great  so  long  as  it  is  good  and  honest.  The  stamp  on  newspa- 
pers is  not  like  the  stamp  on  universal  medicine-bottles,  which  licenses 
anything,  however  false  and  monstrous  ;  and  we  are  sure  this  misuse 
of  it,  in  any  notorious  case,  not  only  offends  and  repels  right-minded 
men  in  that  particular  instance,  but  naturally,  though  unjustly,  in- 
volves the  whole  Press,  as  a  pursuit  or  profession,  in  the  feeling  so 
awakened,  and  places  the  character  of  all  who  are  associated  with  it 
at  a  great  disadvantage. 

"Entering  on  this  adventure  of  a  new  daily  journal  in  a  spirit  of 
honourable  competition  and  hope  of  public  usefulness,  we  seek,  in 
our  new  station,  at  once  to  preserve  our  own  self-respect,  and  to  be 
respected,  for  ourselves  and  for  it,  by  our  readers.     Therefore,  we 

Wright  as  Tilly  Slowboy,  and  at  the  Haymarket  Buckstone  in  the 
same  character,  with  William  Farren  as  Caleb  Plummer.  The  latter 
part  is  taken  at  the  Princess's  by  Compton,  Mrs.  Stirling  playing  Dot. 
At  the  Lyceum,  Mr.,  Mrs.,  and  Miss  Mary  Keeley,  and  Mr.  Emery,  ap- 
pear in  the  piece. 


72  DICKENS.  [chap. 

bog  them  to  receive,  in  this  our  first  number,  the  assurance  that  no 
recognition  or  interchange  of  trade  abuse,  by  us,  shall  be  the  destruc- 
tion of  either  sentiment ;  and  that  we  intend  proceeding  on  our  way, 
and  theirs,  without  stooping  to  any  such  flowers  by  the  roadside." 

I  am  unable  to  say  how  many  days  it  was  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  first  number  that  Dickens,  or  the  proprie- 
tors of  the  journal,  or,  as  seems  most  likely,  both  sides  si- 
multaneously, began  to  consider  the  expediency  of  ending 
the  connexion  between  them.  He  was  "revolving  plans 
for  quitting  the  paper"  on  January  30,  and  resigned  his 
editorship  on  February  9  following.  In  the  interval,  with 
the  exception  of  two  or  three  more  of  the  Travelling  Let- 
ters, very  few  signs  of  his  hand  appear  in  the  journal. 
The  number  of  January  24,  however,  contains  an  edito- 
rial contribution,  in  the  shape  of  "  a  new  song,  but  an 
old  story,"  concerning  The  British  Lion,  his  accomplish- 
ment of  eating  Corn -law  Leagues,  his  principal  keeper, 
Wan  Humbug,  and  so  forth.  This  it  would  be  cruel  to 
unearth.  A  more  important  indication  of  a  line  of  writ- 
ing that  his  example  may  have  helped  to  domesticate  in 
the  Daily  News  appears  in  the  number  of  February  4, 
which  contains  a  long  letter,  with  his  signature,  urging 
the  claims  of  Ragged  Schools,  and  giving  a  graphic  ac- 
count of  his  visit  to  one  in  Saffron  llill.  After  ho  had 
placed  his  resignation  in  the  hands  of  the  proprietors,  and 
was  merely  holding  on  at  his  post  till  the  time  of  his  act- 
ual withdrawal,  he  was  naturally  not  anxious  to  increase 
the  number  of  his  contributions.  The  Hymn  of  the  Wilt- 
shire Labourers — which  appeared  on  February  14 — is,  of 
course,  an  echo  of  the  popular  cry  of  the  day ;  but  the 
subtler  pathos  of  Dickens  never  found  its  way  into  his 
verse.  The  most  important,  and  so  far  as  I  know,  the 
last,  of  his  contributions  to  the  Daily  News,  consisted  of 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  73 

a  series  of  three  letters  (March  9,  13,  and  16)  on  capital 
punishment.  It  was  a  question  which  much  occupied 
him  at  various  times  of  his  life,  and  on  which  it  can- 
not be  shown  that  he  really  changed  his  opinions.  The 
letters  in  the  Daily  JVeivs,  based  in  part  on  the  arguments 
of  one  of  the  ablest  men  of  his  day,  the  "  unlucky  "  Mr. 
AVakefield,  are  an  interesting  contribution  to  the  subject ; 
and  the  first  of  them,  with  its  Hogarthian  sketch  of  the 
temptation  and  fall  of  Thomas  Hocker,  Sunday-school 
teacher  and  murderer,  would  be  worth  reprinting  as  an 
example  of  Dickens's  masterly  use  of  the  argument  ex 
concreto. 

The  few  traditions  which  linger  in  the  Daily  Neius  of- 
fice concerning  Dickens  as  editor  of  the  paper,  agree  with 
the  conjecture  that  his  labours  on  its  behalf  were  limited, 
or  very  nearly  so,  to  the  few  pieces  enumerated  above. 
Of  course  there  must  have  been  some  inevitable  business ; 
but  of  this  much  may  have  been  taken  off  his  hands  by 
his  sub-editor,  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  who  afterwards  became 
his  alter  ego  at  the  ofiice  of  his  own  weekly  journal  and 
his  intimate  personal  friend.  In  the  days  of  the  first  in- 
fancy of  the  Daily  JVews,  Mr.  Britton,  the  present  pub- 
lisher of  that  journal,  was  attached  to  the  editor  as  his 
personal  office  attendant ;  and  he  remembers  very  vividly 
what  little  there  can  have  been  to  remember  about  Dick- 
ens's performance  of  his  functions.  His  habit,  following 
a  famous  precedent,  was  to  make  up  for  coming  late — 
usually  about  half-past  ten  p.m. — by  going  away  early — 
usually  not  long  after  midnight.  There  were  frequently 
sounds  of  merriment,  if  not  of  modest  revelry,  audible 
from  the  little  room  at  the  ofiice  in  Lombard  Street,  where 
the  editor  sat  in  conclave  with  Douglas  Jerrold  and  one 
or  two  other  intimates.  Mr.  Britton  is  not  sure  that  the 
4* 


H  DICKENS.  [chap. 

work  did  not  sometimes  begin  after  the  editor  had  left; 
but  at  all  events  he  cannot  recollect  that  Dickens  ever 
wrote  anything  at  the  ofBce — that  he  ever,  for  instance, 
wrote  about  a  debate  that  had  taken  place  in  Parliament 
on  the  same  night.  And  he  sums  up  his  reminiscences  by 
declaring  his  conviction  that  Dickens  was  "not  a  news- 
paper man,  at  least  not  when  in  '  the  chair.' "  And  so 
Dickens  seems  on  this  occasion  to  have  concluded ;  for 
when,  not  long  after  quitting  the  paper,  he  republished 
with  additions  the  Travelling  Letter's  which  during  his 
conduct  of  it  had  been  its  principal  ornaments,  he  spoke 
of  "  a  brief  mistake  he  had  made,  not  long  ago,  in  disturb- 
ing the  old  relations  between  himself  and  his  readers,  and 
departing  for  a  moment  from  his  old  pursuits."  lie  had 
been  virtually  out  of  "  the  chair"  almost  as  soon  as  he  had 
taken  it.  His  successor,  but  only  for  a  few  months,  was 
his  friend  Forster. 

Never  has  captive  released  made  a  more  eager  or  a  bet- 
ter use  of  his  recovered  freedom.  Before  the  summer 
had  fairly  set  in  Dickens  had  let  his  house,  and  was  travel- 
ling with  his  family  up  the  Rhine  towards  Switzerland. 
This  was,  I  think,  Dickens's  only  passage  through  Ger- 
many, which  in  language  and  literature  remained  a  terra 
incognita  to  him,  while  in  various  ways  so  well  known  to 
his  friendly  rivals,  Lord  Lytton  and  Thackeray.  lie  was 
on  the  track  of  poor  Thomas  Hood's  old  journeyings, 
whose  facetious  recollections  of  Rhineland  he  had  some 
years  before  reviewed  in  a  spirit  of  admiration  rather 
for  the  author  than  for  the  book,  funny  as  it  is.  His 
point  of  destination  was  Lausanne,  where  he  had  resolved 
to  establish  his  household  for  the  summer,  and  where  by 
the  middle  of  June  they  were  most  agreeably  settled  in 
a  little  villa  or  cottage  which  did  not  belie  its  name  of 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  75 

Rosemont,  and  from  which  they  looked  upon  the  lake  and 
the  mighty  Alpine  chain  beyond.  If  Rome  had  reminded 
Dickens  of  London,  the  green  -woods  near  Lausanne  re- 
called to  him  his  Kentish  glades ;  but  he  had  the  fullest 
sense  and  the  truest  enjoyment  of  the  grandeurs  of  Alpine 
scenery,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  them.  Thus  his  letters  contain  an  admirable  descrip- 
tion (not  untinged  with  satire)  of  a  trip  to  the  Great  St. 
Bernard  and  its  convent,  many  years  afterwards  repro- 
duced in  one  of  the  few  enjoyable  chapters  of  the  Second 
Part  of  Little  Dorrit.  More  interesting,  however,  because 
more  characteristic,  is  the  freshness  and  candour  with 
which  in  Switzerland,  wdiere  by  most  English  visitors  the 
native  inhabitants  are  "  taken  for  granted,"  he  set  himself 
to  observe,  and,  so  far  as  he  could,  to  appreciate,  the  peo- 
ple among  whom  he  was  a  temporary  resident.  His  solu- 
tions of  some  of  the  political  difficulties,  which  were  mostly 
connected  with  religious  differences,  at  that  time  rife  in 
Switzerland,  are  palpably  one-sided.  But  the  generosity 
of  spirit  which  reveals  itself  in  his  kindly  recognition  of 
the  fine  qualities  of  the  people  around  him  is  akin  to  what 
was  best  and  noblest  in  Dickens. 

He  had,  at  the  same  time,  been  peculiarly  fortunate  in 
finding  at  Lausanne  a  circle  of  pleasant  acquaintances, 
to  whom  he  dedicated  the  Christmas  book  w^hich  he  wrote 
among  the  roses  and  the  foliage  of  his  lake-side  cottage. 
Of  course  The  Battle  of  Life  was  read  aloud  by  its  author 
to  so  kindly  an  audience.  The  day  of  parting,  however, 
soon  came;  on  the  16th  of  l^oxemhav paterfamilias  had 
his  "several  tons  of  luggage,  other  tons  of  servants,  and 
other  tons  of  children,"  in  travelling  order,  and  soon  had 
safely  stowed  them  away  at  Paris  "  in  the  most  preposter- 
ous house  in  the  world.     The  like  of  it  cannot,  and  so  far 


76  DICKENS.  [cnAP. 

as  my  knowledge  goes,  does  not,  exist  in  any  other  part 
of  the  globe.  The  bedrooms  are  like  opera-boxes;  the 
dining-rooms,  staircases,  and  passages  quite  inexplicable. 
The  dining-room  " — which  in  another  letter  he  describes 
as  "mere  midsummer  madness" — "is  a  sort  of  cavern, 
painted  (ceiling  and  all)  to  represent  a  grove,  with  unac- 
countable bits  of  looking-glass  sticking  in  among  the 
branches  of  the  trees.  There  is  a  gleam  of  reason  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  it  is  approached  through  a  series  of 
small  chambers,  like  the  joints  in  a  telescope,  which  are 
hung  with  inscrutable  drapery."  Here,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  two  brief  visits  to  England,  paid  before  his  final 
departure,  he  spent  three  months,  familiarising  himself  for 
the  first  time  of  his  life  with  the  second  of  his  "Two 
Cities." 

Dickens  came  to  know  the  French  language  well  enough 
to  use  it  with  ease,  if  not  with  elegance ;  and  he  lost  no 
opportunity,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  of  resorting  to  the 
best  of  schools  for  the  purpose.  Macready,  previously  ad- 
dressed from  "Altorf,"  had  made  him  acquainted  with 
Regnier,  of  the  Theatre  Fran^ais,  who  in  his  turn  had  in- 
troduced him  to  the  greenroom  of  the  house  of  Moliere. 
Other  theatres  were  diligently  visited  by  him  and  Forster, 
when  the  latter  arrived  on  a  visit;  and  celebrities  were 
polite  and  hospitable  to  their  distinguished  English  con- 
frere. With  these,  however,  Dickens  Avas  not  cosmopoli- 
tan enough  to  consort  except  in  passing ;  the  love  of  liter- 
ary society  because  it  is  literary  society  was  at  no  time  one 
of  his  predilections  or  foibles.  The  streets  of  Paris  were 
to  him  more  than  its  salons^  more  even  than  its  theatres. 
They  are  so  to  a  larger  number  of  Englishmen  than  that 
which  cares  to  confess  it,  but  Dickens  would  have  been 
the   last  to   disown  the  impeachment.      They  were  the 


m.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  77 

proper  sphere  for  his  powers  of  humorous  observation,  as 
he  afterwards  showed  in  more  than  one  descriptive  paper 
as  true  to  life  as  any  of  his  London  Sketches.  And,  more- 
over, he  needed  the  streets  for  the  work  which  he  had  in 
hand.  Bomheij  and  Son  had  been  begun  at  Rosemont, 
and  the  first  of  its  twenty  monthly  numbers  had  been 
published  in  October,  1846.  No  reader  of  the  book  is 
likely  to  forget  how,  after  writing  the  chapter  which  re- 
lates the  death  of  little  Paul,  Dickens  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  wandered  restlessly  with  a  heavy  heart 
about  the  Paris  streets.  Sooner,  however,  than  he  had  in- 
tended, his  residence  abroad  had  to  come  to  a  close ;  and 
early  in  1847  he  and  his  family  were  again  in  London. 

Dortibey  and  Son  has,  perhaps,  been  more  criticised  than 
any  other  amongst  the  stories  of  its  author ;  and  yet  it  cer- 
tainly is  not  the  one  which  has  been  least  admired,  or  least 
loved.  Dickens  himself,  in  the  brief  preface  which  he  af- 
terwards prefixed  to  the  story,  assumed  a  half-defiant  air 
which  sits  ill  upon  the  most  successful  author,  but  which 
occasionally  he  was  tempted  to  assume.  Before  conde- 
scending to  defend  the  character  of  Mr.  Dombey  as  in  ac- 
cordance with  both  probability  and  experience,  he  "  made 
so  bold  as  to  believe  that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit)  of 
correctly  observing  the  characters  of  men  is  a  rare  one." 
Yet,  though  the  drawing  of  this  character  is  only  one  of 
the  points  which  have  been  objected  against  the  story,  not 
only  did  the  book  at  the  time  of  publication  far  surpass 
its  predecessor  in  popularity,  but  it  has,  I  believe,  always 
preserved  to  itself  a  special  congregation  of  enthusiastic 
admirers.  Manifestly,  this  novel  is  one  of  its  author's 
most  ambitious  endeavours.  In  it,  more  distinctly  even 
than  in  Chuzzlewit^  he  has  chosen  for  his  theme  one  of 
the  chief  vices  of  human  nature,  and  has  striven  to  show 


18  DICKENS.  [chap. 

what  pride  cannot  achieve,  what  it  cannot  conquer,  what 
it  cannot  withstand.  This  central  idea  gives  to  the  story, 
throughout  a  most  varied  succession  of  scenes,  a  unity  of 
action  to  be  found  in  few  of  Dickens's  earlier  works.  On 
the  other  hand,  Domhey  and  Son  shares  with  these  earlier 
productions,  and  with  its  successor,  David  Copperfield,  the 
freshness  of  invention  and  spontaneous  flow  of  both  hu- 
mour and  pathos  which  at  times  are  wanting  in  the  more 
powerfully  conceived  and  more  carefully  constructed  ro- 
mances of  Dickens's  later  years.  If  there  be  any  force  at 
all  in  the  common  remark  that  the  most  interesting  part 
of  the  book  ends  together  with  the  life  of  little  Paul,  the 
censure  falls  upon  the  whole  design  of  the  author.  Little 
Paul,  in  something  besides  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the 
words,  was  born  to  die ;  and  though,  like  the  writer,  most 
readers  may  have  dreaded  the  hour  which  was  to  put  an 
end  to  that  frail  life,  yet  in  this  case  there  could  be  no 
question — such  as  was  possible  in  the  story  of  Little  Nell 
— of  any  other  issue.  Indeed,  deep  as  is  the  pathos  of 
the  closing  scene,  its  beauty  is  even  surpassed  by  those 
which  precede  it.  In  death  itself  there  is  release  for  a 
child  as  for  a  man,  and  for  those  sitting  by  the  pillow  of 
the  patient ;  but  it  is  the  gradual  approach  of  death  which 
seems  hardest  of  all  for  the  watchers  to  bear;  it  is  the 
sinking  of  hope  which  seems  even  sadder  than  its  extinc- 
tion. What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered 
with  a  palpitating  heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in 
him,  so  plainly  seen  by  so  many  people?  Every  heart  is 
softened  and  every  eye  dimmed  as  the  innocent  child 
passes  on  his  way  to  his  grave.  The  hand  of  God's  angel 
is  on  him  ;  he  is  no  longer  altogether  of  this  world.  The 
imagination  which  could  picture  and  present  this  myste- 
rious haze  of  feeling,  through  which  the  narrative  moves, 


ni.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  ^9 

half  like  a  reality,  half  like  a  dream,  is  that  of  a  true  poet, 
and  of  a  great  one. 

What  even  the  loss  of  his  son  could  not  effect  in  Mr. 
Dombey  is  to  be  accomplished  in  the  progress  of  the  story 
by  a  yet  stronger  agency  than  sorrow.  His  pride  is  to  be 
humbled  to  the  dust,  where  he  is  to  be  sought  and  raised 
up  by  the  love  of  his  despised  and  ill-used  daughter. 
Upon  the  relations  between  this  pair,  accordingly,  it  was 
necessary  for  the  author  to  expend  the  greatest  care,  and 
upon  the  treatment  of  those  relations  the  criticism  to 
which  the  character  of  Mr.  Dombey  has  been  so  largely 
subjected  must  substantially  turn.  The  unfavourable  judg- 
ments passed  upon  it  have,  in  my  opinion,  not  been  alto- 
gether unjust.  The  problem  obviously  was  to  show  how 
the  father's  cold  indifference  towards  the  daughter  gradu- 
ally becomes  jealousy,  as  he  finds  that  upon  her  is  concen- 
trated, first,  the  love  of  his  innocent  little  son,  and  then 
that  of  his  haughty  second  wife;  and  how  hereupon  this 
jealousy  deepens  into  hate.  But,  unless  we  are  to  suppose 
that  Mr.  Dombey  hated  his  daughter  from  the  first,  tlie 
disfavour  shown  by  him  on  her  account  to  young  Walter 
Gay  remains  without  adequate  explanation.  His  dislike 
of  Florence  is  not  manifestly  founded  upon  his  jealousy 
of  what  Mrs.  Chick  calls  her  brother's  "infatuation"  for 
her;  and  the  main  motives  at  work  in  the  unhappy  man 
are  either  not  very  skilfully  kept  asunder,  or  not  very  in- 
telligibly intermixed.  Nor  are  the  later  stages  of  the  re- 
lations between  father  and  daughter  altogether  satisfacto- 
rily conceived.  The  momentary  yielding  of  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  his  "coming  home"  with  his  new  wife,  is  natural 
and  touching;  but  his  threat  to  visit  his  daughter  with 
the  consequences  of  her  step-mother's  conduct  is  sheer  bru- 
tality.    The  passage  in  which  Mr.  Dombey's  ultimatum  to 


80  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Mrs.  Dombey  is  conveyed  by  liim  in  her  presence  through 
a  third  person  is  so  artificial  as  to  fall  not  very  far 
short  of  absurdity.  The  closing  scene  which  leads  to  the 
flight  of  Florence  is  undeniably  powerful ;  but  it  is  the 
development  of  the  relations  between  the  pair  in  which 
the  art  of  the  author  is  in  my  judgment  occasionally  at 
fault. 

As  to  the  general  effect  of  the  latter  part  of  the  story 
— or  rather  of  its  main  plot — which  again  has  been  con- 
demned as  melodramatic  and  unnatural,  a  distinction  should 
be  drawn  between  its  incidents  and  its  characters.  Nei- 
ther Edith  Dombey  nor  Mr.  Carker  is  a  character  of  real 
life.  The  pride  of  the  former  comes  very  near  to  bad 
breeding,  and  her  lapses  into  sentiment  seem  artificial  lapses. 
IIow  differently  Thackeray  would  have  managed  the  "  high 
words"  between  her  and  her  frivolous  mother!  how  differ- 
ently, for  that  matter,  he  has  managed  a  not  altogether  dis- 
similar scene  in  the  Neivcomes  between  Ethel  Newcome  and 
old  Lady  Kew !  As  for  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  white  teeth 
and  glistening  gums,  who  calls  his  unhappy  brother  "  Span- 
iel," and  contemplates  a  life  of  sensual  ease  in  Sicily,  lie 
has  the  semi-reality  of  the  stage.  Possibly  the  French 
stage  had  helped  to  suggest  the  scene  de  la  2)iece  between 
the  fugitives  at  Dijon — an  effective  situation,  bat  one  which 
many  a  novelist  might  have  worked  out  not  less  skilfully 
than  -Dickens.  His  own  master-hand,  however,  re-asserts 
itself  in  the  wondrously  powerful  narrative  of  Carker's 
flight  and  death.  Here  again  he  excites  terror — as  in  the 
same  book  he  had  evoked  pity — by  foreshadowing,  with- 
out prematurely  revealing,  the  end.  We  know  what  the 
morning  is  to  bring  which  rises  in  awful  tranquillity  over 
the  victim  of  his  own  sins ;  and,  as  in  Turner's  wild  but 


III.]  STRANGE  LANDS.  81 

powerful  picture,  the  engine  made  by  tlie  hand  of  man  for 
peaceful  purposes  seems  a  living  agent  of  wrath/ 

No  other  of  Dickens's  books  is  more  abundantly  stocked 
than  this  with  genuinely  comic  characters ;  but  nearly  all 
of  them,  in  accordance  with  the  pathetic  tone  which  is 
struck  at  the  outset,  and  which  never  dies  out  till  the  story 
has  run  its  course,  are  in  a  more  subdued  strain  of  humour. 
Lord  Jeffrey  was,  I  think,  warranted  in  his  astonishment 
that  Dickens  should  devote  so  much  pains  to  characters 
like  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox.  Probably  the  habit  re- 
mained with  him  from  his  earliest  times  of  authorship, 
when  he  had  not  always  distinguished  very  accurately  be- 
tween the  humorous  and  the  bizarre.  But  Polly  and  the 
Toodles  household,  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  her  "  select  infan- 
tine boarding-house,"  and  the  whole  of  Doctor  Blimbcr's 
establishment,  from  the  Doctor  himself  down  to  Mr.  Toots, 
and  up  again,  in  the  scale  of  intellect,  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 
are  among  the  most  admirable  of  all  the  great  humourist's 
creations.  Against  this  ample  provision  for  her  poor  little 
brother's  nursing  and  training  Florence  has  to  set  but  her 
one  Susan  Nipper ;  but  she  is  a  host  in  herself,  an  abso- 
lutely original  character  among  the  thousands  of  souhrettes 
that  are  known  to  comedy  and  fiction,  and  one  of  the  best 
tonic  mixtures  ever  composed  out  of  much  humour  and 
not  a  few  grains  of  pathos.  Her  tartness  has  a  cooling 
flavour  of  its  own ;    but  it  is  the  Mrs.  Pipchinses  only 

'  It  is,  perhaps,  worth  pointing  out,  though  it  is  not  surprising, 
that  Dickens  had  a  strong  sense  of  what  I  may  call  the  poetry  of 
the  railway-train.  Of  the  effect  of  the  weird  Signalman'' s  Story  in 
one  of  his  Christmas  numbers  it  is  not  very  easy  to  rid  one's  self. 
There  are  excellent  descriptions  of  the  rajndity  of  a  railway  journey 
in  the  first  chapter  of  The  Lazy  Toia\  imd.  in  another  Household 
Wo7'ds  paper,  called  A  Flight. 


82  DICKENS.  [chap. 

upon  whom  she  acts,  as  their  type  acted  upon  her,  "  like 
early  gooseberries."  Of  course  she  has  a  favourite  figure  of 
speech  belonging  to  herself,  which  rhetoricians  would  prob- 
ably class  among  the  figures  "  working  by  surplusage :" 

" '  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may  draw  out  my  two  front 
double  teeth,  Mrs.  Eichards,  but  that's  no  reason  why  I  need  offer 
'em  the  whole  set.' " 

Dickens  was  to  fall  very  largely  into  this  habit  of  "  la- 
belling" his  characters,  as  it  has  been  called,  by  particular 
tricks  or  terms  of  speech ;  and  there  is  a  certain  excess 
in  this  direction  already  in  Domhey  and  Son,  where  not 
only  Miss  Nipper  and  Captain  Cuttle  and  Mr.  Toots,  but 
Major  Bagstock  too  and  Cousin  Feenix,  are  thus  furnished 
forth.  But  the  invention  is  still  so  fresh  and  the  play  of 
humour  so  varied,  that  this  mannerism  cannot  be  said  as 
yet  seriously  to  disturb  them.  A  romantic  charm  of  a  pe- 
culiar kind  clings  to  honest  Captain  Cuttle  and  the  quaint 
home  over  which  he  mounts  guard  during  the  absence  of 
its  owner.  The  nautical  colouring  and  concomitant  fun 
apart — for  only  Smollett  could  have  drawn  Jack  Bunsby's 
fellow,  though  the  character  in  his  hands  would  have  been 
differently  accentuated  —  Dickens  has  never  approached 
more  nearly  to  the  manner  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  than  in 
this  singularly  attractive  part  of  his  book.  Elsewhere 
the  story  passes  into  that  sphere  of  society  in  describing 
which  Dickens  was,  as  a  novelist,  rarely  very  successful. 
But  though  Edith  is  cold  and  unreal,  there  is,  it  cannot 
be  denied,  human  nature  in  the  pigments  and  figments  of 
her  hideous  old  mother;  and,  to  outward  appearance  at  all 
events,  the  counterparts  of  her  apoplectic  admirer,  Major 
Bagstock,  still  pace  tJiose  pavements  and  promenades 
which  it  suits  them  to  frequent.     Cousin  Feenix  is  like- 


III.]  STRAXGE  LAXDS.  83 

wise  very  far  from  impossible,  and  is  besides  extremely 
deliglitful — and  a  good  fellow  too  at  bottom,  so  that  the 
sting  of  the  satire  is  here  taken  away.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  meeting  between  the  sacs  et  2^circhemins  at  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  house  is  quite  out  of  focus. 

The  book  has  other  heights  and  depths,  and  pleasant 
and  unpleasant  parts  and  passages.  But  enough  has  been 
said  to  recall  the  exuberant  creative  force,  and  the  marvel- 
lous strength  of  pathos  and  humour  which  Domhey  and 
Son  proves  that  Dickens,  now  near  the  very  height  of  his 
powers  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  possessed.  In  one  of  his 
public  readings  many  years  afterwards,  when  he  was  re- 
citing the  adventures  of  Little  Dombey,  ho  narrates  that 
"  a  very  good  fellow,"  whom  he  noticed  in  the  stalls,  could 
not  refrain  from  wiping  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes  as  often 
as  he  thought  that  Toots  was  coming  on.  And  just  as 
Toots  had  become  a  reality  to  this  good  fellow,  so  Toots 
and  Toots's  little  friend,  and  divers  other  personages  in 
this  story,  have  become  realities  to  half  the  world  that 
reads  the  English  tongue,  and  to  many  besides.  What 
higher  praise  could  be  given  to  this  wonderful  book  ?  Of 
all  the  works  of  its  author  none  has  more  powerfully  and 
more  permanently  taken  hold  of  the  imagination  of  its 
readers.  Though  he  conjured  up  only  pictures  familiar  to 
us  from  the  aspect  of  our  own  streets  and  our  own  homes, 
he  too  wielded  a  wizard's  wand. 

After  the  success  of  Domhey  it  might  have  seemed  that 
nothing  further  was  wanting  to  crown  the  prosperity  of 
Dickens's  literary  career.  While  the  publication  of  this 
story  was  in  progress  he  had  concluded  arrangements  for 
the  issue  of  his  collected  writings,  in  a  cheap  edition,  which 
beo-an  in  the  year  1847,  and  which  he  dedicated  "to  the 
English  people,  in  whose  approval,  if  the  books  be  true 


84  DICKENS.  [chap.  hi. 

in  spirit,  they  "will  live,  and  out  of  whose  memory,  if  they 
be  false,  they  will  very  soon  die."  He  who  could  thus 
proudly  appeal  to  posterity  was  already,  beyond  all  dis- 
pute, the  people's  chosen  favourite  among  its  men  of  let- 
ters. That  position  he  was  not  to  lose  so  long  as  he 
lived ;  but  even  at  this  time  the  height  had  not  been 
reached  to  which  (in  the  almost  unanimous  judgment  of 
those  who  love  his  writings)  he  was  in  his  next  work  to 
attain. 


I 

i 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ID    COPPERF] 
[184Y-1851.] 

The  five  years,  reckoned  roughly,  from  the  beginning  of 
1847  to  tlie  close  of  1851,  were  most  assuredly  the  season 
in  v;hich  the  genius  of  Dickens  produced  its  richest  and 
rarest  fruit.  When  it  opened  he  was  still  at  work  upon 
Dombey  and  Son;  towards  its  end  he  was  already  en- 
gaged upon  the  earliest  portions  of  Bleak  House.  And  it 
was  during  the  interval  that  he  produced  a  book  cherished 
by  himself  with  an  affection  differing  in  kind,  as  well  as 
in  degree,  from  the  common  fondness  of  an  author  for  his 
literary  offspring,  and  a  pearl  without  a  peer  amongst  the 
later  fictions  of  our  English  school — David  Copperfield. 
To  this  period  also  belong,  it  is  true,  not  a  few  lesser  pro- 
ductions of  the  same  ready  pen  ;  for  the  last  of  his  Christ- 
mas books  was  wa-itten  in  1848,  and  in  1850  his  weekly 
periodical,  Household  Words,  began  to  run  its  course. 
There  w^as  much  play  too  in  these  busy  years,  but  all  more 
or  less  of  the  kind  which  his  good-humoured  self-irony 
afterwards  very  correctly  characterised  : 

"  '  Play  !'  said  Thomas  Idle.  '  Here  is  a  man  goes  systematically 
tearing  himself  to  pieces,  and  putting  himself  through  an  incessant 
course  of  training,  as  if  he  were  always  under  articles  to  fight  a 
match  for  the  champion's  belt,  and  he  calls  it  "  Play."     Play !'  ex- 


86  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

claimed  Thomas  Idle,  scornfully  contemplating  his  one  boot  in  the 
air ;  '  you  can't  play.  You  don't  know  what  it  is.  You  make  work 
of  everything !' " 

"  A  man,"  added  the  same  easy  philosopher,  "  who  can 
do  nothing  by  halves  appears  to  me  to  be  a  fearful  man." 
And  as  at  all  times  in  Dickens's  life,  so  most  emphatically 
in  these  years  when  his  physical  powers  seemed  ready  to 
meet  every  demand,  and  the  elasticity  of  his  mind  seemed 
equal  to  every  effort,  he  did  nothing  by  halves.  Within 
this  short  space  of  time  not  only  did  he  write  his  best 
book,  and  conduct  a  weekly  journal  of  solid  merit  through 
its  most  trying  stage,  but  he  also  established  his  reputa- 
tion as  one  of  the  best "  unpolitical "  speakers  in  the  coun- 
try; and  as  an  amateur  actor  and  manager  successfully 
weathered  what  may  be  called  three  theatrical  seasons,  to 
the  labours  and  glories  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a  parallel  even  in  the  records  of  that  most  exacting 
of  all  social  amusements.  One  likes  to  think  of  him  in 
these  years  of  vigorous  manhood,  no  longer  the  fair  youth 
with  the  flowing  locks  of  Maclise's  charming  portrait,  but 
not  yet,  I  suppose,  altogether  the  commanding  and  rather 
stern  presence  of  later  years.  Mr.  Frith's  portrait  was  not 
painted  till  1859,  by  which  time  the  face  occasionally  had 
a  more  set  expression,  and  the  entire  personality  a  more 
weather-beaten  appearance,  than  this  well-known  picture 
suggests.  But  even  eight  years  before  this  date,  when 
Dickens  was  acting  in  Lord  Lytton's  comedy  the  part  of  a 
young  man  of  mode,  Mr.  Sala's  well-known  comparison  of 
his  outward  man  to  "  some  prosperous  sea-captain  home 
from  a  sea- voyage,"  was  thought  applicable  to  him  by 
another  shrewd  observer,  Mr.  R.  II.  Ilorne,  who  says  that, 
fashionable  "make-up"  notwithstanding,  "he  presented  a 
figure  that  would  have  made  a  good  portrait  of  a  Dutch 


IV.]  "DAYID  COPPEKFIELD."  87 

privateer  after  having  taken  a  capital  prize."  And  in 
1856  Ary  Scbeffer,  to  whom  when  sitting  for  his  portrait 
he  had  excused  himself  for  being  a  difficult  subject,  "  re- 
ceived the  apology  as  strictly  his  due,  and  said,  with  a 
vexed  air,  *  At  this  moment,  moii  cher  Dickens,  you  look 
more  like  an  energetic  Dutch  admiral  than  anything  else ;' 
for  which  I  apologised  again."  In  1853,  in  the  sympa- 
thetic neighbourhood  of  Boulogne,  he  was  "  growing  a 
mustache,"  and,  by  1856,  a  beard  of  the  Henri  Quatre 
type  had  been  added ;  but  even  before  that  time  we  may 
well  believe  that  he  was,  as  Mr.  Sala  says,  "  one  of  the  few 
men  whose  individuality  was  not  effaced  by  the  mournful 
conventionality  of  evening-dress."  Even  in  morning-dress 
he  unconsciously  contrived,  born  actor  as  he  was,  to  have 
something  unusual  about  him ;  and,  if  report  speaks  the 
truth,  even  at  the  sea-side,  when  most  prodigal  of  ease,  he 
was  careful  to  dress  the  character. 

The  five  years  of  which  more  especially  I  am  speaking 
brought  him  repeatedly  face  to  face  with  the  public,  and 
within  hearing  of  the  applause  that  was  becoming  more 
and  more  of  a  necessity  to  him.  They  were  thus  unmis- 
takably amongst  the  very  happiest  years  of  his  life.  The 
shadow  that  was  to  fall  upon  his  home  can  hardly  yet 
have  been  visible  even  in  the  dim  distance.  For  this  the 
young  voices  were  too  many  and  too  fresh  around  him  be- 
hind the  garden-wall  in  Devonshire  Terrace,  and  amongst 
the  autumnal  corn  on  the  cliffs  at  Broadstairs.  "They 
are  all  in  great  force,"  he  whites  to  his  wife,  in  September, 
1850,  and  "much  excited  with  the  expectation  of  receiv- 
ing you  on  Friday ;"  and  I  only  wdsh  I  had  space  to  quote 
the  special  report  sent  on  this  occasion  to  the  absent 
mother  concerning  her  precocious  three-year-old.  What 
sorrowful  experiences  he  in  these  years  underwent  were 


88  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

such  as  few  men  escape  amongst  the  chances  of  life.  In 
1848  he  lost  the  sister  who  had  been  the  companion  of 
his  earhest  days,  and  three  years  later  his  father,  whom  he 
had  learned  to  respect  as  well  as  love.  Not  long  after- 
wards his  little  Dora,  the  youngest  of  his  flock,  was  sud- 
denly taken  from  him.  Meanwhile,  his  old  friends  clung 
to  him.  Indeed,  I  never  heard  that  he  lost  the  affection 
of  any  one  who  had  been  attached  to  him ;  and  though 
the  circle  of  his  real  intimates  was  never  greatly  wi- 
dened, yet  he  was  on  friendly  or  even  familiar  terms  with 
many  whose  names  belong  to  the  history  of  their  times. 
Amongst  these  were  the  late  Lord  Lytton — then  Sir  Ed- 
ward Bulwer  Lytton — whose  splendid  abilities  were  still 
devoted  mainly  to  literary  labours,  and  between  whom  and 
Dickens  there  were  more  points  of  contrast  than  might  at 
first  sight  appear.  Of  Thackeray,  too,  he  seems  to  have 
been  coming  to  know  more ;  and  with  Leech,  more  espe- 
cially during  a  summer  sojourn  of  both  their  families  at 
Bonchurch,  in  1849,  he  grew  intimate.  Mr.  Monckton 
Milnes — then,  and  since  as  Lord  Houghton,  semper  amicus^ 
sem2)€r  hospes  both  to  successful  merit  and  to  honest  en- 
deavour— Lord  Carlisle,  and  others  who  adorned  the  great 
world  under  more  than  one  of  its  aspects,  were,  of  course, 
welcome  friends  and  acquaintances ;  and  even  Carlyle  oc- 
casionally found  his  way  to  the  house  of  his  staunch  ad- 
mirer, though  he  might  declare  that  he  -was,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Mr.  Peggotty's  house-keeper,  "  a  lorn  lone  creat- 
ure, and  everything  went  contrairy  with  him." 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  describe  the  personal  habits  of  a 
man  who  is  found  seeing  the  spring  in  at  Brighton  and 
the  autumn  out  at  Broadstairs,  and  in  the  interval  "  stroll- 
ing "  through  the  chief  towns  of  the  kingdom  at  the  head 
of  a  large  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  according  to 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  89 

the  description  wliich  he  put  into  Mrs.  Gamp's  mouth, 
"  with  a  great  box  of  papers  under  his  arm,  a-talking  to 
everybody  wery  indistinct,  and  exciting  of  himself  dread- 
ful." But  since  under  ordinary  circumstances  lie  made, 
even  in  outward  matters  and  arrangements  of  detail,  a 
home  for  himself  wherever  he  was,  and  as  a  rule  cared  lit- 
tle for  the  society  of  companions  whose  ideas  and  ways  of 
life  were  foreign  to  his  own,  certain  habits  had  become 
second  nature  to  him,  and  to  others  he  adhered  with  so- 
phistical tenacity.  He  was  an  early  riser,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  because  every  man  in  whose  work  imagination 
plays  its  part  must  sometimes  be  alone ;  and  Dickens  has 
told  us  that  there  was  to  him  something  incomparably 
solemn  in  the  still  solitude  of  the  morning.  But  it  was 
only  exceptionally,  and  when  hard-pressed  by  the  necessi- 
ties of  his  literary  labours,  that  he  wTote  before  breakfast ; 
in  general  he  was  contented  with  the  ordinary  working 
hours  of  the  morning,  not  often  writing  after  luncheon, 
and,  except  in  early  life,  never  in  the  evening.  Ordinarily, 
when  engaged  on  a  work  of  fiction,  he  considered  three  of 
his  not  very  large  MS.  pages  a  good,  and  four  an  excellent, 
day's  work;  and,  while  very  careful  in  making  his  correc- 
tions clear  and  unmistakable,  he  never  rewrote  what  a 
morning's  labour  had  ultimately  produced.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  frequently  slow  in  beginning  a  story,  being, 
as  he  himself  says,  affected  by  something  like  desponden- 
cy at  such  times,  or,  as  he  elsewhere  humorously  puts  it, 
"  going  round  and  round  the  idea,  as  you  see  a  bird  in  his 
cage  go  about  and  about  his  sugar  ^before  he  touches  it." 
A  temperate  liver,  he  was  at  the  same  time  a  zealous  dev- 
otee of  bodily  exercise.  He  had  not  as  yet  given  up 
riding,  and  is  found,  in  1848,  spending  the  whole  of  a 
March  day,  with  Forster,  Leech,  and  Mark  Lemon,  in  rid- 


90  DICKENS.  [chap. 

ing  over  every  part  of  Salisbury  Plain.  But  walking  ex- 
ercise was  at  once  Lis  forte  and  bis  fanaticism.  He  is  said 
to  have  constructed  for  bimself  a  tbeory  that,  to  every 
portion  of  tbe  day  given  to  intellectual  labour  should  cor- 
respond an  equal  number  of  hours  spent  in  walking ;  and 
frequently,  no  doubt,  he  gave  up  his  morning's  chapter 
before  he  had  begun  it,  "  entirely  persuading  himself  that 
he  was  under  a  moral  obligation"  to  do  his  twenty  miles 
on  the  road.  By  day  he  found  in  the  London  thorough- 
fares stimulative  variety,  and  at  a  later  date  he  states  it 
to  be  "  one  of  his  fancies  that  even  his  idlest  walk  must 
have  its  appointed  destination  ;"  and  by  night,  in  seasons 
of  intellectual  excitement,  he  found  in  these  same  streets 
the  refreshment  of  isolation  among  crowds.  But  the 
walks  he  loved  best  were  long  stretches  on  the  cliffs  or 
across  the  downs  by  the  sea,  where,  following  the  track  of 
his  "  breathers,"  one  half  expects  to  meet  him  coming 
along  against  the  wind  at  four  and  a  half  miles  an  hour, 
the  very  embodiment  of  energy  and  brimful  of  life. 

And  besides  this  energy  he  carried  with  him,  whereso- 
ever he  pitched  his  tent,  what  was  the  second  cause  of  his 
extraordinary  success  in  so  much  of  the  business  of  life  as 
it  fell  to  him  to  perform.  lie  hated  disorder  as  Sir  Arte- 
gal  hated  injustice ;  and  if  there  was  anything  against 
which  he  took  up  his  parable  with  burning  indignation,  it 
was  slovenliness,  and  half-done  work,  and  "shoddiness"  of 
all  kinds.  His  love  of  order  made  him  always  the  most  reg- 
ular of  men.  "Everything  with  him,"  Miss  Hogarth  told 
me,  "went  as  by  clock-work;  his  movements,  his  absences 
from  home,  and  the  times  of  his  return  were  all  fixed  be- 
forehand, and  it  was  seldom  that  he  failed  to  adhere  to 
what  he  had  fixed."  Like  most  men  endowed  with  a 
superfluity  of  energy,  he  prided  himself  on  his  punctual- 


IT.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  91 

ity.  He  could  not  live  in  a  room  or  in  a  house  till  ho 
had  put  every  piece  of  furniture  into  its  proper  place, 
nor  could  he  begin  to  work  till  all  his  writing-gear  was  at 
hand,  with  no  item  missing  or  misplaced.  Yet  he  did  not, 
like  so  man}',  combine  with  these  habits  and  tendencies  a 
saving  disposition.  "  No  man,"  he  said  of  himself,  "  at- 
taches less  importance  to  the  possession  of  money,  or  less 
disparagement  to  the  want  of  it,  than  I  do."  His  circum- 
stances, though  easy,  were  never  such  as  to  warrant  a  dis- 
play to  which,  perhaps,  certain  qualities  of  his  character 
might  have  inclined  him  ;  even  at  a  much  later  date  he 
described  himself — rather  oddly,  perhaps — as  "  a  man  of 
moderate  savings,  always  supporting  a  very  expensive  pub- 
lic position."  But,  so  far  as  I  can  gather,  he  never  had 
a  reasonable  want  which  he  could  not  and  did  not  satisfy, 
though  at  the  same  time  he  cared  for  very  few  of  the 
pursuits  or  amusements  that  are  apt  to  drain  much  larger 
resources  than  his.  He  never  had  to  think  twice  about 
country  or  sea-side  quarters ;  wherever  it  might  suit  his 
purpose  or  fancy  to  choose  them,  at  one  of  his  south-coast 
haunts  or,  for  his  wife's  health,  at  Malvern,  thither  he 
went ;  and  when  the  whim  seized  him  for  a  trip  en  gargon 
to  any  part  of  England  or  to  Paris,  he  had  only  to  bid  the 
infallible  x\nne  pack  his  trunk.  He  was  a  provident  as 
well  as  an  affectionate  father ;  but  the  cost  of  educating 
his  numerous  family  seems  to  have  caused  him  no  serious 
anxiety.  In  1849  he  sent  his  eldest  son  to  Eton.  And 
while  he  had  sworn  a  kind  of  vendetta  against  begging-let- 
ter writers,  and  afterwards  used  to  parry  the  attacks  of  his 
pertinacious  enemies  by  means  of  carefully-prepared  writ- 
ten forms,  his  hand  seems  to  have  been  at  all  times  open 
for  charity. 

Some  of  these  personal  characteristics  of  Dickens  were 


92  DICKENS.  [chap. 

to  be  broiiglit  out  with  remarkable  vividness  during  the 
period  of  his  life  which  forms  the  special  subject  of  the 
present  chapter.  Never  was  he  more  thoroughly  himself 
than  as  a  theatrical  manager  and  actor,  surrounded  by 
cono-enial  associates.  He  starred  it  to  his  heart's  content 
at  the  country  seat  of  his  kind  Lausanne  friends,  Mr.  and 
Mrs,  Watson.  But  the  fii*st  occasion  on  which  he  became 
publicly  known  in  both  the  above-mentioned  capacities 
was  the  reproduction  of  the  amateur  performance  of  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour.  This  time  the  audiences  were  to 
be  in  Manchester  and  Liverpool,  where  it  was  hoped  that 
a  golden  harvest  might  be  reaped  for  Leigh  Hunt,  who 
was  at  that  time  in  sore  straits.  As  it  chanced,  a  civil- 
list  pension  was  just  about  this  time — 1847 — conferred 
upon  the  most  unaffectedly  graceful  of  all  modern  writers 
of  English  verse.  It  was  accordingly  resolved  to  divert 
part  of  the  proceeds  of  the  undertaking  in  favour  of  a 
worthy  playwright,  the  author  of  Paul  Pry.  The  com- 
edy was  acted  with  brilliant  success  at  Manchester,  on  July 
26,  and  at  Liverpool  two  days  later;  and  then  the  "man- 
agerial miseries,"  which  Dickens  had  enjoyed  with  his 
whole  heart  and  soul,  were  over  for  the  nonce.  Already, 
however,  in  the  following  year,  1848,  an  excellent  reason 
was  found  for  their  recommencement ;  and  nine  perform- 
ances of  Ben  Jonson's  play,  this  time  alternated  with 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor^  were  given  by  Dickens's 
"company  of  amateurs" — the  expression  is  his  own — at 
the  Haymarket,  and  in  the  theatres  of  five  of  the  largest 
towns  in  the  kingdom,  for  the  benefit  of  Sheridan  Knowlcs. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  honourable  than  Dickens's 
readiness  to  serve  the  interests  of  an  actor  with  whom,  but 
for  his  own  generous  temper,  he  would  only  a  few  months 
before  have  been  involved  in  a  wordy  quarrel.     In   The 


IV.]  "DAYID  COPPERFIELD."  93 

Merry  Wives,  tlie  manager  acted  Justice  Shallow  to  Mark 
Lemon's  Falstaff.  Dame  Quietly  was  played  by  Mrs. 
Cowden  Clarke,  who  speedily  became  a  favourite  corre- 
spondent of  Dickens.  But  the  climax  of  these  excite- 
ments arrived  in  the  year  of  wonders,  1851,  when,  with  a 
flourish  of  trumpets  resounding  through  the  world  of 
fashion  as  well  as  of  letters,  the  comedy  JVot  so  Bad  as 
We  Seem,  written  for  the  occasion  by  Bulwer  Lytton,  was 
performed  under  Dickens's  management  at  Devonshire 
House,  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Guild  of  Literature  and  Art.  The  object  was  a  noble 
one,  though  the  ultimate  result  of  the  scheme  has  been  an 
almost  pitiable  failure ;  and  nothing  was  spared,  by  the 
host  or  the  actors,  to  make  the  effect  worthy  of  it.  While 
some  of  the  most  popular  men  of  letters  took  parts  in  the 
clever  and  effective  play,  its  scenery  was  painted  by  some 
of  the  most  eminent  among  the  English  artists.  Dickens 
was  fired  by  the  ardour  of  the  enterprise,  and,  proceeding 
on  his  principle  that  the  performance  could  not  possibly 
"be  a  success  if  the  smallest  pepper-corn  of  arrangement 
were  omitted,"  covered  himself  and  his  associates  with 
glory.  From  Devonshire  House  play  and  theatre  were 
transferred  to  the  Hanover  Square  Rooms,  where  the 
farce  of  Mr.  Nightingale's  Diary  was  included  in  the  per- 
formance, of  which  some  vivid  reminiscences  have  been 
published  by  one  of  the  few  survivors  of  that  noble  com- 
pany, Mr.  R.  H.  Home.  Other  accounts  corroborate  his 
recollections  of  the  farce,  which  was  the  triumph  of  "  gag," 
and  would  have  been  reckoned  a  masterpiece  in  the  old 
commedia  delV  arte.  The  characters  played  by  Dickens 
included  Sam  Weller  turned  waiter;  a  voluble  barrister 
by  the  name  of  Mr.  Gabblewig;  a  hypochondriac  suffering 
from  a  prescription  of  mustard  and  milk;  the  Gampish 


94  DICKENS.  [chap. 

mother  of  a  charity  -  boy  (Mr.  Egg) ;  and  her  brother,  a 
stone-deaf  old  sexton,  who  appeared  to  be  "  at  least  ninety 
years  of  age."  The  last-named  assumption  seems  to  have 
been  singularly  effective: 

"After  repeated  shoutings  ('It's  of  no  use  whispering  to  me,  young 
man')  of  the  word  'buried' — '■Brewed!  Oh  yes,  sir,  I  have  brewed 
many  a  good  gallon  of  ale  in  my  time.  The  last  batch  I  brewed,  sir, 
was  finer  than  all  the  rest — the  best  ale  ever  brewed  in  the  county. 
It  used  to  be  called  in  our  parts  here  *'  Samson  with  his  hair  on !" 
in  allusion' — here  his  excitement  shook  the  tremulous  frame  into 
coughing  and  wheezing — '  in  allusion  to  its  great  strength.'  He  look- 
ed from  face  to  face  to  see  if  his  feat  was  duly  appreciated,  and  his 
venerable  jest  understood  by  those  around ;  and  then,  softly  repeat- 
ing, with  a  glimmering  smile,  '  in  allusion  to  its  great  strength,'  he 
turned  about,  and  made  his  exit,  like  one  moving  towards  his  own 
grave  while  he  thinks  he  is  following  the  funeral  of  another." 

From  London  the  company  travelled  into  the  country, 
where  their  scries  of  performances  was  not  closed  till  late 
in  the  succeeding  year,  1852.  Dickens  was  from  first  to 
last  the  manager,  and  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  undertaking. 
Amongst  his  latest  recruits  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  is  specially 
mentioned  by  Forster.  The  acquaintance  which  thus  be- 
gan soon  ripened  into  a  close  and  lasting  friendship,  and 
became,  with  the  exception  of  that  with  Forster  himself, 
the  most  important  of  all  Dickens's  personal  intimacies 
for  the  history  of  his  career  as  an  author. 

Speech-making  was  not  in  quite  the  same  sense,  or  to 
quite  the  same  degree,  as  amateur  acting  and  managing,  a 
voluntary  labour  on  Dickens's  part.  Not  that  he  was  one 
of  those  to  whom  the  task  of  occasionally  addressing  a 
public  audience  is  a  pain  or  even  a  burden.  Indeed,  he 
was  a  born  orator ;  for  he  possessed  both  that  strong  and 
clastic  imaginative  power  which  enables  a  man  to  place 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  95 

himself  at  once  in  syrapatliy  with  his  audience,  and  that 
gift  of  speed],  pointed,  playful,  and  where  necessary  im- 
petuous, which  pleads  well  in  any  assembly  for  any  cause. 
He  had  moreover  the  personal  qualifications  of  a  hand- 
some manly  presence,  a  sympathetic  eye,  and  a  fine  flexible 
voice,  which,  as  his  own  hints  on  public  speaking  show, 
he  managed  with  care  and  intelligence.  He  had,  he  says, 
"  fought  with  beasts  (oratorically)  in  divers  arenas."  But 
though  a  speaker  in  whom  ease  bred  force,  and  force  ease, 
he  was  the  reverse  of  a  mere  builder  of  phrases  and 
weaver  of  periods.  "Mere  holding  forth,"  he  declared, 
"  I  utterly  detest,  abominate,  and  abjure."  His  innate 
hatred  of  talk  for  mere  talk's  sake  had  doubtless  been 
intensified  by  his  early  reporting  experiences,  and  by  what 
had  become  his  stereotyped  notion  of  our  parliamentary 
system.  At  the  Administration  Reform  meeting  in  1855 
he  stated  that  he  had  never  before  attended  a  public  meet- 
ing. On  the  other  hand,  he  had  been  for  already  several 
years  in  great  request  for  meetings  of  a  different  kind, 
concerned  with  the  establishment  or  advancement  of  edu- 
cational or  charitable  institutions  in  London  and  other 
great  towns  of  the  country.  His  addresses  from  the  chair 
were  often  of  remarkable  excellence ;  and  this  not  merely 
because  crowded  halls  and  increased  subscription-lists  were 
their  concomitants,  and  because  the  happiness  of  his  hu- 
mour— never  out  of  season,  and  even  on  such  occasions 
often  singularly  prompt — sent  every  one  home  in  good 
spirits.  In  these  now  forgotten  speeches  on  behalf  of 
Athenasums  and  Mechanics'  Institutes,  or  of  actors'  and 
artists'  and  newsmen's  charities,  their  occasional  advocate 
never  appears  occasional.  Instead  of  seeming  to  have 
just  mastered  his  brief  while  the  audience  was  taking  its 
seats,  or  to  have  become  for  the  first  time  deeply  inter- 


96  DICKENS.  [chap. 

csted  in  liis  subject  in  the  interval  between  his  sonp  and 
his  speech,  the  cause  which  Dickens  pleads  never  has  in 
him  cither  an  imperfectly  informed  or  a  half-indifferent 
representative.  Amongst  many  charming  illustrations  of  a 
vein  of  oratory  in  which  he  has  been  equalled  by  very  few 
if  by  any  public  men  of  his  own  or  the  succeeding  genera- 
tion, I  will  instance  only  one  address,  though  it  belongs 
to  a  considerably  later  date  than  the  time  of  David  Cop- 
perfield.  Nothing,  however,  that  Dickens  has  ever  writ- 
ten— not  even  David  Copperfield  itself — breathes  a  ten- 
derer sympathy  for  the  weakness  of  unprotected  child- 
hood than  the  beautiful  little  speech  delivered  by  him  on 
February  9,  1858,  on  behalf  of  the  London  Hospital  for 
Sick  Children.  Beginning  with  some  touches  of  humour 
concerning  the  spoilt  children  of  the  rich,  the  orator  goes 
on  to  speak  of  the  "  spoilt  children  "  of  the  poor,  illustrat- 
ing -with  concrete  directness  both  the  humorous  and  the 
pathetic  side  of  his  subject,  and  after  a  skilfully  introduced 
sketch  of  the  capabilities  and  wants  of  the  "  infant  institu- 
tion" for  which  he  pleads,  ending  with  an  appeal,  found- 
ed on  a  fancy  of  Charles  Lamb,  to  the  support  of  the 
"dream-children"  belonging  to  each  of  his  hearers:  "the 
dear  child  you  love,  the  dearer  child  you  have  lost,  the 
child  you  might  have  had,  the  child  you  certainly  have 
been."  This  is  true  eloquence,  of  a  kind  which  aims  at 
something  besides  opening  purse-strings.  In  1851  he  had 
spoken  in  the  same  vein  of  mixed  humour  and  pathos 
on  behalf  of  his  clients,  the  poor  actors,  when,  unknown 
to  him,  a  little  child  of  his  own  was  lying  dead  at 
home.  But  in  these  years  of  his  life,  as  indeed  at  all 
times,  his  voice  was  at  the  service  of  such  causes  as  had 
his  sympathy;  it  was  heard  at  Birmingham,  at  Leeds, 
at  Glasgow;    distance  was  of  little  moment  to  his  ener- 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  97 

getic  nature ;    and  as  to  trouble,  liow  could  he  do  any- 
thing by  halves  ? 

There  was  yet  a  third  kind  of  activity,  distinct  from 
that  of  literary  work  pure  and  simple,  in  which  Dickens 
in  these  years  for  the  first  time  systematically  engaged. 
It  has  been  seen  how  he  had  long  cherished  the  notion  of 
a  periodical  conducted  by  himself,  and  marked  by  a  unity 
of  design  which  should  make  it  in  a  more  than  ordinary 
sense  his  own  paper.  With  a  genius  like  his,  which  at- 
tached itself  to  the  concrete,  very  much  depended  at  the 
outset  upon  the  choice  of  a  title.  The  Cricket  could  not 
serve  again,  and  for  some  time  the  notion  of  an  omnipres- 
ent Shadoiv,  with  something,  if  possible,  tacked  to  it  "ex- 
pressing the  notion  of  its  being  cheerful,  useful,  and  al- 
ways welcome,"  seemed  to  promise  excellently.  For  a 
rather  less  ambitious  .design,  however,  a  rather  less  ambi- 
tious title  was  sought,  and  at  last  fortunately  found,  in  the 
phrase,  rendered  proverbial  by  Shakspeare,  '"'' Household 
Wordsy  "  We  hope,"  he  wrote  a  few  weeks  before  the 
first  number  appeared,  on  March  30, 1850,  "to  do  some 
solid  good,  and  we  mean  to  be  as  cheery  and  pleasant  as 
we  can."  But  Household  Words,  which  in  form  and  in 
cost  was  to  be  a  paper  for  the  multitude,  was  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  agreeable  and  useful  and  cheap.  It  was 
to  help  in  casting  out  the  many  devils  that  had  taken  up 
their  abode  in  popular  periodical  literature,  the  "  bastards 
of  the  Mountain,"  and  the  foul  fiends  who  dealt  in  infa- 
mous scurrility,  and  to  do  this  with  the  aid  of  a  chann 
more  potent  than  the  most  lucid  argument  and  the  most 
abundant  facts.  "  In  the  bosoms  of  the  young  and  old, 
of  the  well-to-do  and  of  the  poor,"  says  the  Preliminary 
Word  in  the  first  number,  "  we  would  tenderly  cherish 
that  light  of  fancy  which  is  inherent  in  the  human 
5* 


98  DICKENS.  [chap. 

breast."  To  this  purpose  it  was  the  editor's  constant  and 
deliberate  endeavour  to  bind  his  paper.  "  Keep  '  House- 
hold Words  '  imaginative  !"  is  the  "  solemn  and  con- 
tinual Conductorial  Injunction"  which  three  years  after 
the  foundation  of  the  journal  he  impresses,  with  the  artful 
aid  of  capitals,  upon  his  faithful  coadjutor,  Mr.  W.  H. 
Wills.  In  his  own  contributions  he  was  not  forgetful  of 
this  maxim,  and  the  most  important  of  them,  the  serial 
story,  Hard  Times,  was  written  with  the  express  intention 
of  pointing  it  as  a  moral. 

There  are,  I  suppose,  in  addition  to  the  many  mysterious 
functions  performed  by  the  editor  of  a  literary  journal, 
two  of  the  very  highest  significance ;  in  the  first  place,  the 
choice  of  his  contributors,  and  then,  if  the  expression  may 
be  used,  the  management  of  them.  In  both  respects  but 
one  opinion  seems  to  exist  of  Dickeiis's  admirable  qualities 
as  an  editor.  Out  of  the  many  contributors  to  Household 
Words,  and  its  kindred  successor.  All  the  Year  Round — 
some  of  whom  are  "happily  still  among  living  writers — it 
would  be  invidious  to  select  for  mention  a  few  in  proof  of 
the  editor's  discrimination.  But  it  will  not  be  forgotten 
that  the  first  number  of  the  earlier  journal  contained  the 
beginning  of  a  tale  by  Mrs.  Gaskell,  whose  name  will  long 
remain  a  household  word  in  England,  both  North  and 
South.  And  a  periodical  could  hardly  be  deemed  one- 
sided which  included  among  its  contributors  scholars  and 
writers  of  the  distinction  belonging  to  the  names  of  Forster 
and  Mr.  Henry  Morley,  together  with  humorous  observers 
of  men  and  things  such  as  Mr.  Sala  and  Albert  Smith.  On 
the  other  hand,  Household  Words  had  what  every  literary 
journal  ought  to  have,  an  individuality  of  its  own ;  and 
this  individuality  was,  of  course,  that  of  its  editor.  The 
mannerisms  of  Dickens's  style  afterwards  came  to  be  im- 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD;'  99 

itated  by  some  among  his  contributors;  but  the  general 
unity  perceptible  in  the  journal  ^Yas  the  natural  and  legiti- 
mate result  of  the  fact  that  it  stood  under  the  independent 
control  of  a  vigorous  editor,  assisted  by  a  sub-editor — Mr. 
W.  H.  Wills — of  rare  trustworthiness.  Dickens  had  a  keen 
eye  for  selecting  subjects  from  a  definite  field,  a  ready  skill 
for  shaping,  if  necessary,  the  articles  accepted  by  him,  and 
a  genius  for  providing  them  with  expressive  and  attractive 
titles.  Fiction  and  poetry  apart,  these  articles  have  mostly 
a  social  character  or  bearing,  although  they  often  deviate 
into  the  pleasant  paths  of  literature  or  art;  and  usually, 
but  by  no  means  always,  the  scenes  or  associations  with 
which  they  connect  themselves  are  of  England,  English. 

Nothing  could  surpass  the  unflagging  courtesy  shown 
by  Dickens  towards  his  contributors,  great  or  small,  old  or 
new,  and  his  patient  interest  in  their  endeavours,  while  he 
conducted  Household  Words,  and  afterwards  All  the  Year 
Round.  Of  this  there  is  evidence  enough  to  make  the 
records  of  the  ofiice  in  Wellington  Street  a  pleasant  page 
in  the  history  of  journalism.  He  valued  a  good  workman 
when  he  found  him,  and  was  far  too  reasonable  and  gener- 
ous to  put  his  own  stamp  upon  all  the  good  metal  that 
passed  through  his  hands.  Even  in  his  Christmas  Num- 
bers he  left  the  utmost  possible  freedom  to  his  associates. 
Wliere  he  altered  or  modified  it  was  as  one  who  had  come 
to  know  the  pulse  of  the  public ;  and  he  was  not  less  con- 
siderate with  novices,  than  he  was  frank  and  explicit  with 
experts,  in  the  wTiter's  art.  The  articles  in  his  journal  be- 
ing anonymous,  he  was  not  tempted  to  use  names  as  baits 
for  the  public,  though  many  who  Avrote  for  him  were  men 
or  women  of  high  literary  reputation.  And  he  kept  his 
doors  open.  While  some  editors  deem  it  their  duty  to 
w^ard  off  would-be  contributors,  as  some  ministers  of  state 


100  DICKENS.  [chap. 

think  it  theirs  to  get  rid  of  deputations,  Dickens  sought  to 
ignore  instead  of  jealously  guarding  the  boundaries  of  pro- 
fessional literature.  Nothing  in  this  way  ever  gave  him 
greater  delight  than  to  have  welcomed  and  published  sev- 
eral poems  sent  to  him  under  a  feigned  name,  but  which 
he  afterwards  discovered  to  be  the  first-fruits  of  the  charm- 
ing poetical  talent  of  Miss  Adelaide  Procter,  the  daughter 
of  his  old  friend  "Barry  Cornwall." 

In  the  preparation  of  his  own  papers,  or  of  those  which, 
like  the  Christmas  Numbers,  he  composed  conjointly  with 
one  or  more  of  his  familiars,  he  spared  no  labour  and 
thought  no  toil  too  great.  At  times,  of  course,  he,  like  all 
periodical  writers  who  cannot  be  merry  every  AVednesday 
or  caustic  every  Saturday,  felt  the  pressure  of  the  screw. 
"As  to  two  comic  articles,"  he  exclaims  on  one  occasion, 
"  or  two  any  sort  of  articles,  out  of  me,  that's  the  intensest 
extreme  of  no-goism."  But,  as  a  rule,  no  great  writer  ever 
ran  more  gaily  under  his  self-imposed  yoke.  His  "Un- 
commercial Travels,"  as  he  at  a  later  date  happily  chris- 
tened them,  familiarised  him  with  whatever  parts  or  aspects 
of  London  his  long  walks  had  still  left  unexplored ;  and 
he  was  as  conscientious  in  hunting  up  the  details  of  a  com- 
plicated subject  as  in  finding  out  the  secrets  of  an  obscure 
pursuit  or  trade.  Accomplished  antiquarians  and  "  com- 
missioners "  assisted  him  in  his  labours ;  but  he  was  no  roi 
faineant  on  the  editorial  sofa  which  he  so  complacently 
describes.  Whether  he  was  taking  A  Walk  in  a  Work- 
house, or  knocking  at  the  door  of  another  with  the  super- 
numerary waifs  in  Whitechapel,  or  On  (night)  J)ut7/  ivith 
Insjjector  Field  among  the  worst  of  the  London  slums,  he 
was  always  ready  to  see  with  his  own  eyes ;  after  which 
the  photographic  power  of  his  pen  seemed  always  capable 
of  doing  the  rest.     Occasionally  he   treats   topics  more 


IV.]  ''DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  101 

properly  journalistic,  but  he  is  most  delightful  when  he 
takes  his  ease  in  his  English  or  his  French  Watering- 
place^  or  carries  his  readers  with  him  on  A  Flight  to 
Paris,  bringing  before  them,  as  it  were,  in  breathless  suc- 
cession, every  inch  of  the  familiar  journey.  Happiest  of 
all  is  be  when,  with  his  friend  Mr.  AVilkie  Collins — this, 
however,  not  until  the  autumn  of  1857 — he  starts  on  The 
Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  the  earlier  chapters 
of  which  furnish  some  of  the  best  specimens  of  his  most 
humorous  prose.  Neither  at  the  same  time  does  he  forget 
himself  to  enforce  the  claim  of  his  journal  to  strengthen 
the  imaginary  side  of  literature.  In  an  assumed  character 
he  allows  a  veteran  poet  to  carry  him  By  Rail  to  Par- 
nassus, and  even  good-humouredly  banters  an  old  friend, 
George  Cruikshank,  for  having  committed  Frauds  on  the 
Fairies  by  re-editing  legendary  lore  with  the  view  of  in- 
culcating the  principle  of  total  abstinence. 

Such,  then,  were  some  of  the  channels  in  which  the  in- 
tense mental  and  physical  energy  of  Dickens  found  a  con- 
genial outlet  in  these  busy  years.  Yet  in  the  very  midst 
of  this  multifarious  activity  the  mysterious  and  controlling 
power  of  his  genius  enabled  him  to  collect  himself  for  the 
composition  of  a  w^ork  of  fiction  which,  as  I  have  already 
said,  holds,  and  will  always  continue  to  hold,  a  place  of  its 
own  among  its  works.  "  Of  all  my  books,"  he  declares, 
"  I  like  this  the  best.  It  will  be  easily  believed  that  I  am 
a  fond  parent  to  every  child  of  my  fancy,  and  that  no  one 
can  ever  love  that  family  as  dearly  as  I  love  them.  But, 
like  many  fond  parents,  I  have  in  my  heart  of  hearts  a 
favourite  child — and  his  name  is  David  Copperfield  !" 
He  parted  from  the  story  with  a  pang,  and  when  in  after 
life  he  returned  to  its  perusal,  he  was  hardly  able  to 
master  the  emotions  which  it  recalled;  perhaps  even  he 


102  DICKENS.  [chap. 

hardly  knew  what  the  effort  of  its  production  had  cost 
him. 

The  first  number  of  David  Coijperfield  was  published 
in  May,  1849 — the  last  in  November,  1850.  To  judge 
from  the  difficulty  which  Dickens  found  in  choosing  a 
title  for  his  story — of  which  difficulty  plentiful  evidence 
remains  in  MS.  at  South  Kensington — he  must  have  been 
fain  to  delay  longer  even  than  usual  on  the  threshold. 
In  the  end  the  name  of  the  hero  evolved  itself  out  of  a 
series  of  transformations,  from  Trotfield  and  Trotbury  to 
Copperboy,  Copperstone  —  "Copperfull"  being  reserved 
as  a  lectio  varians  for  Mrs.  Crupp  —  and  Copper  field. 
Then  at  last  the  pen  could  fall  seriously  to  work,  and, 
proceeding  slowly  at  first — for  the  first  page  of  the  MS. 
contains  a  great  number  of  alterations — dip  itself  now 
into  black,  now  into  blue  ink,  and  in  a  small  writing,  al- 
ready contrasting  with  the  bolder  hand  of  earlier  days, 
produce  page  upon  page  of  an  incomparable  book.  No 
doubt  what  so  irresistibly  attracted  Dickens  to  David  Cop- 
perfield^  and  what  has  since  fascinated  many  readers,  more 
or  less  conscious  of  the  secret  of  the  charm,  is  the  auto- 
biographical element  in  the  story.  Until  the  publication 
of  Forster's  Life  no  reader  of  Copperfi.eld  could  be  aware 
of  the  pang  it  must  have  cost  Dickens  to  lay  bare,  though 
to  unsuspecting  eyes,  the  story  of  experiences  which  he 
had  hitherto  kept  all  but  absolutely  secret,  and  to  which 
his  own  mind  could  not  recur  without  a  quivering  sensi- 
tiveness. No  reader  could  trace,  as  the  memory  of  Dick- 
ens always  must  have  traced,  some  of  the  most  vivid  of 
those  experiences,  imbued  though  they  were  with  the 
tints  of  a  delightfully  playful  humor,  in  the  doings  and 
dealings  of  Mr.  Wilkins  Micawber,  whose  original,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  was  passing  tranquilly  away  out  of 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  103 

life,  while  his  comic  counterpart  was  blossoming  into  a 
whimsical  immortality.  And  no  reader  could  divine, 
what  very  probably  even  the  author  may  hardly  have  vent- 
ured to  confess  to  himself,  that  in  the  lovely  little  idyl 
of  the  loves  of  Doady  and  Dora — with  Jip,  as  Dora's,  fa- 
ther might  have  said,  intervening — there  were,  besides  the 
reminiscences  of  an  innocent  juvenile  amour,  the  vestiges 
of  a  man's  unconfessed  though  not  altogether  unrepressed 
disappointment — the  sense  that  "there  was  always  some- 
thing wanting."  But  in  order  to  be  affected  by  a  person- 
al or  autobiographical  element  in  a  fiction  or  poem,  it  is 
by  no  means  necessary  to  be  aware  of  its  actual  bearing 
and  character,  or  even  of  its  very  existence.  Amelia 
would  gain  little  by  illustrative  notes  concerning  the  ex- 
periences of  the  first  Mrs.  Fielding.  To  excite  in  a  work 
of  fiction  the  peculiar  kind  of  interest  of  which  I  am 
speaking  the  existence  of  an  autobiographical  substratum 
need  not  be  apparent  in  it,  nor  need  its  presence  be  even 
suspected.  Enough,  if  it  be  there.  But  it  had  far  better 
be  away  altogether,  unless  the  novelist  has  so  thoroughly 
fused  this  particular  stream  of  metal  with  the  mass  filling 
his  mould  that  the  result  is  an  integral  artistic  whole. 
Such  was,  however,  the  case  with  David  Copperfield^  which 
of  all  Dickens's  fictions  is  on  the  whole  the  most  perfect 
as  a  work  of  art.  Personal  reminiscences  which  lay  deep 
in  the  author's  breast  are,  as  effects,  harmonised  with  local 
associations  old  and  new.  Thus,  Yarmouth,  painted  in 
the  story  with  singular  poetic  truthfulness,  had  only  quite 
recently  been  seen  by  Dickens  for  the  first  time,  on  a 
holiday  trip.  His  imagination  still  subdued  to  itself 
all  the  elements  with  which  he  worked;  and,  whatever 
may  be  thought  of  the  construction  of  this  story,  none 
of  his  other  books  equals  it  in  that  harmony  of  tone 


104  DICKENS.  [chap. 

which  no  artist  can  secure  unless  by  recastingv  all  his  ma- 
terials. 

As  to  the  construction  of  David  Copperjield,  however, 
I  frankly  confess  that  I  perceive  no  serious  fault  in  it. 
It  is  a  story  with  a  plot,  and  not  merely  a  string  of  advent- 
ures and  experiences,  like  little  Davy's  old  favourites  up- 
stairs at  Bhinderstone.  In  the  conduct  of  this  plot  blem- 
ishes may  here  and  there  occur.  The  boy's  flight  from 
London,  and  the  direction  which  it  takes,  are  insuflBciently 
accounted  for.  A  certain  amount  of  obscurity,  as  well 
perhaps  as  of  improbability,  pervades  the  relations  between 
Uriah  and  the  victim,  round  whom  the  unspeakably  slimy 
thing  writhes  and  wriggles.  On  the  other  hand,  the  mere 
conduct  of  the  story  has  much  that  is  beautiful  in  it. 
Thus,  there  is  real  art  in  the  way  in  w^hich  the  scene  of 
Barkis's  death — written  with  admirable  moderation — pre- 
pares for  the  "greater  loss"  at  hand  for  the  mourning 
family.  And  in  the  entire  treatment  of  his  hero's  double 
love  story  Dickens  has,  to  my  mind,  avoided  that  discord* 
which,  in  spite  of  himself,  jars  upon  the  reader  both  in 
Esmond  and  in  Adam  Bcde.  The  best  constructed  part 
of  David  Copperjield  is,  however,  unmistakably  the  story 
of  Little  Emily  and  her  kinsfolk.  This  is  most  skilfully 
interwoven  with  the  personal  experiences  of  David,  of 
which — except  in  its  very  beginnings — it  forms  no  integral 
part ;  and  throughout  the  reader  is  haunted  by  a  presenti- 
ment of  the  coming  catastrophe,  though  unable  to  divine 
the  tragic  force  and  justice  of  its  actual  accomplishment. 
A  touch  altered  here  and  there  in  Steerforth,  with  the 
Rosa  Dartle  episode  excluded  or  greatly  reduced,  and  this 
part  of  David  Copperjield  might  challenge  comparison  as 
to  workmanship  with  the  whole  literature  of  modern 
fiction. 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  105 

Of  tlie  idyl  of  Davy  and  Dora  what  shall  I  say?  Its 
earliest  stages  are  full  of  the  gayest  comedy.  What,  for 
instance,  could  surpass  the  history  of  the  picnic — where 
was  it?  perhaps  it  was  near  Guildford.  At  that  feast  an 
imaginary  rival,  "Red  AVhisker,"  made  the  salad  —  how 
could  they  cat  it? — and  "voted  himself  into  the  charge 
of  the  wine-cellar,  which  he  constructed,  heing  an  ingenious 
beast,  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  tree."  Better  still  are  the 
backward  ripples  in  the  course  of  true  love ;  best  of  all 
the  deep  wisdom  of  Miss  Mills,  in  whose  nature  mental 
trial  and  suffering  supplied,  in  some  measure,  the  place 
of  years.  In  the  narrative  of  the  young  house-keeping 
David's  real  trouble  is  most  skilfully  mingled  with  the 
comic  woes  of  the  situation ;  and  thus  the  idyl  almost  im- 
perceptibly passes  into  the  last  phase,  where  the  clouds 
dissolve  in  a  rain  of  tears.  The  genius  which  conceived 
and  executed  these  closing  scenes  was  touched  by  a  pity 
towards  the  fictitious  creatures  of  his  own  imagination, 
which  melted  his  own  heart ;  and  thus  his  pathos  is  here 
irresistible. 

The  inventive  power  of  Dickens  in  none  of  his  other 
books  indulged  itself  so  abundantly  in  the  creation  of  ec- 
centric characters,  but  neither  was  it  in  any  so  admirably 
tempered  by  taste  and  feeling.  It  contains  no  character 
which  could  strictly  be  called  grotesque,  unless  it  be  little 
Miss  Mowcher.  Most  of  her  outward  peculiarities  Dick- 
ens had  copied  from  a  living  original ;  but  receiving  a  re- 
monstrance from  the  latter,  he  good-humouredly  altered 
the  use  he  had  intended  to  make  of  the  character,  and 
thereby  spoiled  what  there  was  in  it — not  much,  in  my 
opinion  —  to  spoil.  Mr.  Dick  belongs  to  a  species  of 
eccentric  personages — mad  people,  in  a  word — for  which 
Dickens  as  a  writer  had  a  curious  liking;   but  though 


106  DICKENS.  [chap. 

there  is  consequently  no  true  humour  in  this  character, 
it  helps  to  bring  out  the  latent  tenderness  in  another. 
David's  Aunt  is  a  figure  which  none  but  a  true  humourist 
such  as  Sterne  or  Dickens  could  have  drawn,  and  she 
must  have  sprung  from  the  author's  brain  armed  cajo-a-jne 
as  she  appeared  in  her  garden  before  his  little  double. 
Yet  even  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood  was  not  altogether  a  crea- 
tion of  the  fancy,  for  at  Broadstairs  the  locality  is  still 
pointed  out  where  the  "one  great  outrage  of  her  life" 
was  daily  renewed.  In  the  other  chief  characters  of  this 
story  the  author  seems  to  rely  entirely  on  natural  truthful- 
ness. He  must  have  had  many  opportunities  of  noting  the 
ways  of  seamen  and  fishermen,  but  the  occupants  of  the  old 
boat  near  Yarmouth  possess  the  typical  characteristics  with 
which  the  experience  and  the  imagination  of  centuries  have 
agreed  to  credit  the  "  salt "  division  of  mankind.  Again, 
he  had  had  his  own  experience  of  shabby-genteel  life,  and 
of  the  struggle  which  he  had  himself  seen  a  happy  and  a 
buoyant  temperament  maintaining  against  a  sea  of  trouble. 
But  Mr.  Micawber,  whatever  features  may  have  been  trans- 
ferred to  him,  is  the  type  of  a  whole  race  of  men  who 
will  not  vanish  from  the  face  of  the  earth  so  long  as  the 
hope  which  lives  eternal  in  the  human  breast  is  only  tem- 
porarily suspended  by  the  laws  of  debtor  and  creditor,  and 
is  always  capable  of  revival  with  the  aid  of  a  bowl  of  milk- 
punch.  A  kindlier  and  a  merrier,  a  more  humorous  and 
a  more  genuine  character  was  never  conceived  than  this; 
and  if  anything  was  wanted  to  complete  the  comicality  of 
the  conception,  it  was  the  wife  of  his  bosom  with  the 
twins  at  her  own,  and  her  mind  made  up  not  to  desert  Mr. 
Micawber.  Delightful  too  in  his  way,  though  of  a  class 
more  common  in  Dickens,  is  Tommy  Traddles,  the  genial 
picture  of  whose  married  life  in  chambers  in  Gray's  Inn, 


IV.]  "DAVID  COPPERFIELD."  107 

with  tlie  dearest  girl  in  the  world  and  her  five  sisters,  in- 
cluding the  beauty,  on  a  visit,  may  have  been  suggested 
by  kindly  personal  reminiscences  of  youthful  days.  In 
contrast  to  these  characters,  the  shambling,  fawning,  vil- 
lanous  hypocrisy  of  Uriah  Heep  is  a  piece  of  intense  and 
elaborate  workmanship,  almost  cruelly  done  without  being 
overdone.  It  was  in  his  figures  of  hypocrites  that  Dick- 
ens's satirical  power  most  diversely  displayed  itself;  and 
by  the  side  of  Uriah  Heep  in  this  story,  literally  so  in  the 
prison-scene  at  the  close,  stands  another  species  of  the  race, 
the  valet  Littimer,  a  sketch  which  Thackeray  himself  could 
not  have  surpassed. 

Thus,  then,  I  must  leave  the  book,  with  its  wealth  of 
pathos  and  humour,  with  the  glow  of  youth  still  tinging 
its  pages,  but  with  the  gentler  mood  of  manhood  pervading 
it  from  first  to  last.  The  reality  of  David  Cojyper field  is, 
perhaps,  the  first  feature  in  it  likely  to  strike  the  reader 
new  to  its  charms ;  but  a  closer  acquaintance  will  produce, 
and  familiarity  will  enhance,  the  sense  of  its  wonderful 
art.  Nothing  will  ever  destroy  the  popularity  of  a  work 
of  which  it  can  truly  be  said  that,  while  offering  to  his 
muse  a  gift  not  less  beautiful  than  precious,  its  author 
put  into  it  his  life's  blood. 


OF    Tli£  ^ 


lUinVSRSITY 


CHAPTER  V. 

CHANGES. 

[1852-1858.] 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  both  tlie  intellectual  and  the  physical 
vigour  of  Charles  Dickens  as  at  their  height  in  the  years 
of  which  the  most  endurinoj  fruit  was  the  most  deli^'htful 
of  all  his  fictions.  But  there  was  no  break  in  his  activity 
after  the  achievement  of  this  or  any  other  of  his  literary 
successes,  and  he  was  never  liarder  at  work  than  during 
the  seven  years  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak,  although 
in  this  period  also  occasionally  he  was  to  be  found  hard 
at  play.  Its  beginning  saw  him  settled  in  his  new  and 
cheerfully-furnished  abode  at  Tavistock  House,  of  which 
he  had  taken  possession  in  October,  1851.  At  its  close 
he  was  master  of  the  country  residence  which  had  been 
the  dream  of  his  childhood,  but  he  had  become  a  stranger 
to  that  tranquillity  of  mind  without  which  no  man's 
house  is  truly  his  home.  Gradually,  but  surely,  things 
had  then,  or  a  little  before,  come  to  such  a  pass  that  he 
wrote  to  his  faithful  friend :  "  I  am  become  incapable  of 
rest.  I  am  quite  confident  I  should  rust,  break,  and  die, 
if  I  spared  myself.  Much  better  to  die,  doing.  What  I 
am  in  that  way  Nature  made  me  first,  and  my  way  of  life 
has  of  late,  alas!  confirmed."  Early  in  1852  the  young- 
est of  his  children  had  been  born  to  him — the  boy  whose 


CHAP,  v.]  CHANGES.  109 

babyhood  once  more  revived  in  him  a  tenderness  the  depth 
of  which  no  eccentric  humours  and  fantastic  sobriquets 
could  conceal.  In  May,  1858,  he  had  separated  from  the 
mother  of  his  children;  and  though  self-sacrificing  affec- 
tion was  at  hand  to  watch  over  thera  and  him,  yet  that 
domestic  life  of  which  he  had  become  the  prophet  and 
poet  to  hundreds  of  thousands  was  in  its  fairest  and  full- 
est form  at  an  end  for  himself. 

In  the  earlier  of  these  years  Dickens's  movements  were 
still  very  much  of  the  same  kind,  and  varied  much  after 
the  same  fashion,  as  in  the  period  described  in  my  last 
chapter.  In  1852  the  series  of  amateur  performances  in 
the  country  was  completed;  but  time  was  found  for  a 
summer  residence  in  Camden  Crescent,  Dover.  During 
his  stay  there,  and  during  most  of  his  working  hours  in 
this  and  the  following  year — the  spring  of  which  was  part- 
ly spent  at  Brighton — he  was  engaged  upon  his  new  story. 
Bleak  JToiise,  published  in  numbers  dating  from  March, 
1852,  to  September,  1853.  "  To  let  you  into  a  secret,"  he 
had  written  to  his  lively  friend,  Miss  Mary  Boyle,  from 
Dover,  "I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  ever  did  like,  or  ever 
shall  like,  anything  quite  so  well  as  Copperfield.  But  I 
foresee,  I  think,  some  very  good  things  in  Bleak  Housey 
There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that,  by  the  general  public, 
this  novel  was  at  the  time  of  its  publication  a  whit  less  fa- 
vourably judged  or  less  eagerly  read  than  its  predecessor. 
According  to  the  author's  own  testimbny  it  "  took  extraor- 
dinarily, especially  during  the  last  five  or  six  months  "  of 
its  issue,  and  "retained  its  immense  circulation  from  the 
first,  beating  dear  old  Copim-jield  by  a  round  ten  thousand 
or  more."  To  this  day  the  book  has  its  staunch  friends, 
some  of  whom  would  perhaps  be  slow  to  confess  by  which 
of  the  elements  in  tbc  story  they  are  most  forcibly  attract- 


110 


DICKENS.  [chap. 


cd.  On  the  otlicr  hand,  Bleak  House  was  probably  the 
first  of  Dickens's  works  which  furnished  a  suitable  text  to 
a  class  of  censors  whose  precious  balms  have  since  de- 
scended upon  his  head  with  constant  reiteration.  The 
power  of  amusing-  being  graciously  conceded  to  the  "man 
of  genius,"  his  book  was  charged  with  "  absolute  want  of 
construction,"  and  with  being  a  heterogeneous  compound 
made  up  of  a  meagre  and  melodramatic  story,  and  a  num- 
ber of  "  odd  folks  that  have  to  do  with  a  long  Chancery 
suit."  Of  the  characters  themselves  it  was  asserted  that, 
though  in  the  main  excessively  funny,  they  were  more  like 
caricatures  of  the  st.sge  than  studies  from  nature.  Some 
approval  was  bestowed  upon  particular  figures,  but  rather 
as  types  of  the  influence  of  externals  than  as  real  individ- 
ualities; and  while  the  character  of  the  poor  crossing- 
sweeper  was  generously  praised,  it  was  regretted  that  Dick- 
ens should  never  have  succeeded  in  drawing  "a  man  or 
woman  whose  lot  is  cast  among  the  high-born  or  wealthy." 
He  belonged,  unfortunately,  "  in  literature  to  the  same  class 
as  his  illustrator,  Ilablot  Browne,  in  design,  though  he  far 
surpasses  the  illustrator  in  range  and  power."  In  other 
words,  he  was  essentially  a  caricaturist. 

As  applied  to  Bleak  House^  with  which  I  am  at  present 
alone  concerned,  this  kind  of  censure  was  in  more  ways 
than  one  unjust.  So  far  as  constructive  skill  was  con- 
cerned, the  praise  given  by  Forster  to  Bleak  House  may 
be  considered  excessive ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
as  compared,  not  with  Pickwick  and  Nicklehy^  but  with  its 
immediate  predecessor,  David  Copinrfield^  this  novel  ex- 
hibits a  decided  advance  in  that  respect.  In  truth,  Dickens 
in  Bleak  House  for  the  first  time  emancipated  himself 
from  that  form  of  novel  which,  in  accordance  with  his 
great  eighteenth-century  favourites,  he  had  hitherto  more 


v.]  CHANGES.  Ill 

or  less  consciously  adopted  —  the  novel  of  adventure,  of 
which  the  person  of  the  hero,  rather  than  the  machinery 
of  the  plot,  forms  the  connecting  element.  It  may  be  that 
the  influence  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  was  already  strong  upon 
him,  and  that  the  younger  writer,  whom  Dickens  was  about 
this  time  praising  for  his  unlikeness  to  the  "  conceited  idi- 
ots who  suppose  that  volumes  are  to  be  tossed  off  like  pan- 
cakes," was  already  teaching  something  to,  as  well  as  learn- 
ing something  from,  the  elder.  It  may  also  be  that  the 
criticism  which  as  editor  of  Household  Words  Dickens  was 
now  in  the  habit  of  judiciously  applying  to  the  fictions  of 
others,  unconsciously  affected  his  own  methods  and  proc- 
esses. Certain  it  is  that  from  this  point  of  view  Bleak 
House  may  be  said  to  begin  a  new  series  among  his  works 
of  fiction.  The  great  Chancery  suit  and  the  fortunes  of 
those  concerned  in  it  are  not  a  disconnected  background 
from  which  the  mystery  of  Lady  Dedlock's  secret  stands 
forth  in  relief;  but  the  two  main  parts  of  the  story  are 
skilfully  interwoven  as  in  a  Spanish  double-plot.  Nor  is 
the  success  of  the  general  action  materially  affected  by  the 
circumstance  that  the  tone  of  Esther  Summerson's  diary 
is  not  altogether  true.  At  the  same  time  there  is  indis- 
putably some  unevenness  in  the  construction  of  Bleak 
House.  It  drags,  and  drags  very  perceptibly,  in  some  of 
its  earlier  parts.  On  the  other  hand,  the  interest  of  the 
reader  is  strongly  revived  when  that  popular  favourite, 
Mr.  Inspector  Bucket,  appears  on  the  scene,  and  when, 
more  especially  in  the  admirably  vivid  narrative  of  Esther's 
journey  with  the  detective,  the  nearness  of  the  catastrophe 
exercises  its  exciting  influence.  Some  of  the  machinery, 
moreover — such  as  the  Sn^Uweed  family's  part  in  the  plot 
— is  tiresome  ;  and  particular  incidents  are  intolerably  hor- 
rible or  absurd — such  as  on  the  one  hand  the  spontaneous 


112  DICKENS.  [chap. 

combustion  (which  is  proved  possible  by  the  analogy  of 
historical  facts !),  and  on  the  other  the  intrusion  of  the  oil- 
grinding  Mr.  Chadband  into  the  solemn  presence  of  Sir 
Leicester  Dedlock's  grief.  But  in  general  the  parts  of  the 
narrative  are  well  knit  together ;  and  there  is  a  subtle  skill 
in  the  way  in  which  the  two  main  parts  of  the  story  con- 
verge towards  their  common  close. 

The  idea  of  making  an  impersonal  object  like  a  great 
Chancery  suit  the  centre  round  which  a  large  and  mani- 
fold group  of  characters  revolves,  seems  to  savour  of  a 
drama  rather  than  of  a  story.  No  doubt  the  theme  sug- 
gested itself  to  Dickens  with  a  very  real  purpose,  and  on 
the  basis  of  facts  which  he  might  well  think  warranted 
him  in  his  treatment  of  it ;  for,  true  artist  though  he  was, 
the  thought  of  exposing  some  national  defect,  of  helping  to 
bring  about  some  real  reform,  was  always  paramount  in  his 
mind  over  any  mere  literary  conception.  Prima  facie ^  at 
least,  and  with  all  due  deference  to  Chancery  judges  and 
eminent  silk  gowns  like  Mr.  Blowers,  the  length  of  Chan- 
cery suits  was  a  real  public  grievance,  as  well  as  a  frequent 
private  calamity.  But  even  as  a  mere  artistic  notion  the 
idea  of  Jarndyce  v.  Jarndyce  as  diversely  affecting  those 
who  lived  by  it,  those  who  rebelled  against  it,  those  who 
died  of  it,  w\as,  in  its  way,  of  unique  force ;  and  while 
Dickens  never  brought  to  any  other  of  his  subjects  so  use- 
ful a  knowledge  of  its  external  details — in  times  gone  by 
he  had  served  a  "Kenge  and  Carboys"  of  his  own  — 
hardly  any  one  of  those  subjects  suggested  so  wide  a 
variety  of  aspects  for  characteristic  treatment. 

For  never  before  had  his  versatility  in  drawing  character 
filled  his  canvas  with  so  multitudinous  and  so  various  a 
host  of  personages.  The  legal  profession,  with  its  ser- 
vitors and  hangers-on  of  every  degree,  occupies  the  centre 


v.]  CHANGES.  113 

of  the  picture.  In  tliis  group  no  figure  is  more  deserving 
of  admiration  than  that  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  the  eminently 
respectable  family  solicitor,  at  whose  very  funeral,  by  a 
four-wheeled  affliction,  the  good -will  of  the  aristocracy 
manifests  itself.  We  learn  very  little  about  him,  and 
probably  care  less;  but  he  interests  us  precisely  as  we 
should  be  interested  by  the  real  old  family  lawyer,  about 
whom  we  might  know  and  care  equally  little,  were  we  to 
find  him  alone  in  the  twilight,  drinking  his  ancient  port  in 
his  frescoed  chamber  in  those  fields  wdiere  the  shepherds 
play  on  Chancery  pipes  that  have  no  stop.  (Mr.  Forster, 
by-the-way,  omitted  to  point  out  to  his  readers,  what  the 
piety  of  American  research  has  since  put  on  record,  that 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn's  house  was  a  picture  of  the  biographer's 
own  residence.)  Tbe  portrait  of  Mr.  Vholes,  who  supports 
an  unassailable  but  unenviable  professional  reputation  for 
the  sake  of  "  the  three  dear  girls  at  home,"  and  a  father 
whom  he  has  to  support  "in  the  Yale  of  Taunton,"  is  less 
attractive;  but  nothing  could  be  more  in  its  place  in  the 
story  than  the  clammy  tenacity  of  this  legal  ghoul  and  his 
"  dead  glove."  Lower  down  in  the  great  system  of  the 
law  we  come  upon  Mr.  Guppy  and  his  fellows,  the  very 
quintessence  of  cockney  vulgarity,  seasoned  with  a  flavour 
of  legal  sharpness  without  which  the  rankness  of  the  mixt- 
ure would  be  incomplete.  To  the  legal  group  Miss  Flite, 
whose  original,  if  I  remember  right,  used  to  haunt  the 
Temple  as  well  as  the  precincts  of  the  Chancery  courts, 
may  likewise  be  said  to  belong.  She  is  quite  legitimately 
introduced  into  the  story — which  cannot  be  said  of  all 
Dickens's  madmen — because  her  madness  associates  itself 
with  its  main  theme. 

Much  admiration  has  been  bestowed  upon  the  figures  of 
an  eccentric  by  or  under  plot  in  this  story,  in  which  the 
6 


114  DICKENS.  [chap. 

family  of  the  Jellybys  and  the  august  Mr.  Turveydrop  are, 
actively,  or  by  passive  endurance,  engaged.  The  philan- 
thropic section  of  le  monde  ou  Von  s'ennuie  has  never  been 
satirised  more  tellingly,  and,  it  must  be  added,  more  bit- 
terly. Perhaps  at  the  time  of  the  publication  of  Bleak 
House  the  activity  of  our  Mrs.  Jellybys  took  a  wider  and 
more  cosmopolitan  sweep  than  in  later  days ;  for  we  read 
at  the  end  of  Esther's  diary  how  Mrs.  Jellyby  "  has  been 
disappointed  in  Borrioboola  Gha,  which  turned  out  a  fail- 
ure in  consequence  of  the  King  of  Borrioboola  wanting  to 
sell  everybody — who  survived  the  climate^for  rum ;  but 
she  has  taken  up  with  the  rights  of  women  to  sit  in  Par- 
liament, and  Caddy  tells  me  it  is  a  mission  involving  more 
correspondence  than  the  old  one."  But  Mrs.  Jcllyby's  in- 
terference in  the  affairs  of  other  people  is  after  all  hurt- 
ful only  because  in  busying  herself  with  theirs  she  forgets 
her  own.  The  truly  offensive  benefactress  of  her  fellow- 
creatures  is  Mrs.  Pardiggle,  who,  maxim  in  mouth  and 
tract  in  hand,  turns  everything  she  approaches  to  stone. 
Among  her  victims  are  her  own  children,  including  Al- 
fred, aged  five,  who  has  been  induced  to  take  an  oath 
''never  to  use  tobacco  in  any  form." 

The  particular  vein  of  feeling  that  led  Dickens  to  the 
delineation  of  these  satirical  figures  was  one  which  never 
ran  dry  with  him,  and  which  suggested  some  forcible- 
feeble  satire  in  his  very  last  fiction.  I  call  it  a  vein  of 
feeling  only ;  for  he  could  hardly  have  argued  in  cold 
blood  that  the  efforts  which  he  ridicules  were  not  misrep- 
resented as  a  whole  by  his  satire.  ^Vhen  poor  Jo  on  his 
death-bed  is  "asked  whether  he  ever  knew  a  prayer,"  and 
replies  that  he  could  never  make  anything  out  of  those 
spoken  by  the  gentlemen  who  "came  down  Tom-all- Alone's 
a-prayin',"  but  who  "  mostly  sed  as  the  t'other  wuns  prayed 


v.]  CHANGES.  113 

wrong,"  the  author  brings  a  charge  which  he  might  not 
have  found  it  easy  to  substantiate.  Yet — with  the  excep- 
tion of  such  isolated  passages — the  figure  of  Jo  is  in  truth 
one  of  the  most  powerful  protests  that  have  been  put  for- 
ward on  behalf  of  the  friendless  outcasts  of  our  streets. 
Nor  did  the  romantic  element  in  the  conception  interfere 
with  the  effect  of  the  realistic.  If  Jo,  who  seems  at  first 
to  have  been  intended  to  be  one  of  the  main  figures  of  the 
story,  is  in  Dickens's  best  pathetic  manner,  the  Bagnet 
family  is  in  his  happiest  vein  of  quiet  humour.  Mr.  In- 
spector Bucket,  though  not  altogether  free  from  manner- 
ism, well  deserves  the  popularity  which  he  obtained.  For 
this  character,  as  the  pages  of  Household  Words  testify, 
Dickens  had  made  many  studies  in  real  life.  The  detec- 
tive police-oflBcer  had  at  that  time  not  yet  become  a  stand- 
ing figure  of  fiction  and  the  drama,  nor  had  the  detective 
of  real  life  begun  to  destroy  the  illusion. 

Bleak  House  was  least  of  all  among  the  novels  hitherto 
published  by  its  author  obnoxious  to  the  charge  persistent- 
ly brought  against  him,  that  he  was  doomed  to  failure  in 
his  attempts  to  draw  characters  taken  from  any  but  the 
lower  spheres  of  life — in  his  attempts,  in  short,  to  draw 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  To  begin  with,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  characters  in  the  book — indeed,  in  its  relation 
to  the  main  idea  of  the  story,  the  most  interesting  of  all — 
is  the  youthful  hero,  if  he  is  to  be  so  called,  Richard  Car- 
son. From  the  very  nature  of  the  conception  the  charac- 
ter is  passive  only ;  but  the  art  and  feeling  are  in  their 
way  unsurpassed  with  which  the  gradual  collapse  of  a  fine 
nature  is  here  exhibited.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock,  in  some 
measure  intended  as  a  type  of  his  class,  has  been  con- 
demned as  wooden  and  unnatural;  and  no  doubt  the 
machinery  of  that  part  of  the  story  in  which  he  is  con- 


116  DICKENS.  [chap. 

ccriied  creaks  before  it  gets  under  way.  On  the  other 
hand,  after  the  catastrophe  has  overwhelmed  him  and  his 
house,  he  becomes  a  really  fine  picture,  unmarred  by  any 
Grandisonianisms  in  either  thought  or  phrase,  of  a  true 
gentleman,  bowed  but  not  warped  by  distress.  Sir  Leices- 
ter's relatives,  both  dead  and  living ;  Yolumnia's  sprightly 
ancestress  on  the  wall,  and  that  "  fair  Dedlock "  herself ; 
the  whole  cousinhood,  debilitated  and  otherwise,  but  of 
one  mind  on  such  points  as  William  Buffy's  blameworthy 
neglect  of  his  duty  ivhen  in  office ;  all  these  make  up  a 
very  probable  picture  of  a  house  great  enough — or  think- 
ing itself  great  enough — to  look  at  the  affairs  of  the  world 
from  the  family  point  of  view.  In  Lady  Dedlock  alone 
a  failure  must  be  admitted ;  but  she,  with  her  wicked 
double,  the  uncanny  French  maid  Hortense,  exists  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  plot. 

With  all  its  merits,  Bleak  House  has  little  of  that  charm 
which  belongs  to  so  many  of  Dickens's  earlier  stories,  and 
to  David  Copperfield  above  all.  In  part,  at  least,  this 
may  be  due  to  the  excessive  severity  of  the  task  which 
Dickens  had  set  himself  in  Bleak  House j  for  hardly  any 
other  of  his  works  is  constructed  on  so  large  a  scale,  or 
contains  so  many  characters  organically  connected  with 
the  progress  of  its  plot ;  and  in  part,  again,  to  the  half- 
didactic,  half-satirical  purport  of  the  stor}^  which  weighs 
heavily  on  the  writer.  An  overstrained  tone  announces 
itself  on  the  very  first  page ;  an  opening  full  of  power — 
indeed,  of  genius — but  pitched  in  a  key  which  we  feel  at 
once  will  not,  without  effort,  be  maintained.  On  the  sec- 
ond page  the  prose  has  actually  become  verse ;  or  how  else 
can  one  describe  part  of  the  following  apostrophe  ? 

" '  This  is  the  Court  of  Chancery,  which  has  its  decaying  houses 
and  its  blighted  lands  in  every  shire ;  which  has  its  worn-out  lunatic 


v.]  CHANGES.  11 7 

in  every  mad-house,  and  its  dead  in  every  church-yard  ;  which  has  its 
ruined  suitor,  with  his  sHpshod  heels  and  threadbare  dress,  borrow- 
ing and  begging  through  the  round  of  every  man's  acquaintance ; 
which  gives  to  moneyed  might  the  means  abundantly  of  wearing  out 
the  right ;  which  so  exhausts  finances,  patience,  courage,  hope ;  so 
overthrows  the  brain  and  breaks  the  heart,  that  there  is  not  an  hon- 
ourable man  among  its  practitioners  who  would  not  give — who  does 
not  often  give — the  warning, "  Suffer  any  wrong  that  can  be  done 
you,  rather  than  come  here !"  '  " 

It  ^vas  possibly  with  some  thought  of  giving  to  Bleak 
House  also,  though  in  a  different  way,  the  close  relation 
to  his  experiences  of  living  men  to  which  David  Cop2)er- 
field  had  owed  so  much,  that  Dickens  introduced  into  it 
two  portraits.  Doubtless,  at  first,  his  intention  had  by  no 
means  gone  so  far  as  this.  His  constant  counsellor  always 
disliked  his  mixing  up  in  his  fictitious  characters  any  per- 
sonal reminiscences  of  particular  men,  experience  having 
shown  that  in  such  cases  the  whole  character  came  out 
more  like  than  the  author  was  aware.  Nor  can  Dickens 
himself  have  failed  to  understand  how  such  an  experiment 
is  always  tempting,  and  always  dangerous ;  how  it  is  often 
irreconcilable  with  good  feeling,  and  quite  as  often  with 
good  taste.  In  Bleak  House^  however,  it  occurred  to  him 
to  introduce  likenesses  of  two  living  men,  both  more  or 
less  well  known  to  the  public  and  to  himself;  and  both 
of  individualities  too  clearly  marked  for  a  portrait,  or  even 
a  caricature,  of  either  to  be  easily  mistaken.  Of  that  art 
of  mystification  which  the  authors  of  both  English  and 
French  romans  a  clef  have  since  practised  with  so  much 
transient  success,  he  was  no  master,  and  fortunately  so ; 
for  what  could  be  more  ridiculous  than  that  the  reader's 
interest  in  a  character  should  be  stimulated,  first,  by  its 

being  evidently  the  late  Lord  P-lm-rst-n  or  the  P of 

0 ,  and  then  by  its  being  no  less  evidently  somebody 


11§  DICKENS.  [chap. 

else  ?  It  should  be  added  that  neither  of  the  two  portrait 
characters  in  Bleak  House  possesses  the  least  importance 
for  the  conduct  of  the  story,  so  that  there  is  nothing  to 
justify  their  introduction  except  whatever  excellence  may 
belong  to  them  in  themselves. 

Lawrence  Boythorn  is  described  by  Mr.  Sydney  Colvin 
as  drawn  from  Walter  Savage  Landor  with  his  intellectual 
greatness  left  out.  It  was,  of  course,  unlikely  that  his  in- 
tellectual greatness  should  be  left  in,  the  intention  obvi- 
ously being  to  reproduce  what  was  eccentric  in  the  ways 
and  manner,  with  a  suggestion  of  what  was  noble  in  the 
character,  of  Dickens's  famous  friend.  AVhether,  had  he 
attempted  to  do  so,  Dickens  could  have  drawn  a  picture 
of  the  whole  Landor,  is  another  question.  Landor,  who 
could  put  into  a  classic  dialogue  that  sense  of  the  naif  to 
which  Dickens  is  generally  a  stranger,  yet  passionately  ad- 
mired the  most  sentimental  of  all  his  young  friend's  poetic 
figures;  and  it  might  almost  be  said  that  the  intellectual 
natures  of  the  two  men  were  drawn  together  by  the  force 
of  contrast.  They  appear  to  have  first  become  intimate 
with  one  another  during  Lander's  residence  at  Bath — 
which  began  in  1837 — and  they  frequently  met  at  Gore 
House.  At  a  celebration  of  the  poet's  birthday  in  his 
lodgings  at  Bath,  so  Forster  tells  us  in  his  biography  of 
Landor,  "  the  fancy  which  took  the  form  of  Little  Nell  in 
the  Curiositt/  Shoj)  first  dawned  on  the  genius  of  its  cre- 
ator." In  Landor's  spacious  mind  there  was  room  for 
cordial  admiration  of  an  author  the  bent  of  whose  genius 
differed  widely  from  that  of  his  own ;  and  he  could  thus 
afford  to  sympathise  with  iiis  whole  heart  in  a  creation 
which  men  of  much  smaller  intellectual  build  have  pro- 
nounced mawkish  and  unreal.  Dickens  afterwards  gave 
to  one  of  his  sons  the  names  of  Walter  Landor ;  and  when 


v.]  CHANGES.  119 

the  old  man  died  at  last,  after  his  godson,  paid  hira  an  elo- 
quent tribute  of  respect  in  All  the  Year  Round.  In  this 
paper  the  personal  intention  of  the  character  of  Boythorn 
is  avowed  by  implication ;  but  though  Landor  esteemed 
and  loved  Dickens,  it  might  seem  matter  for  wonder,  did 
not  eccentrics  after  all  sometimes  cherish  their  own  eccen- 
tricity, that  his  irascible  nature  failed  to  resent  a  rather 
doubtful  compliment.  For  the  character  of  Boythorn  is 
whimsical  rather  than,  in  any  but  the  earlier  sense  of  the 
word,  humorous.  But  the  portrait,  however  imperfect,  was 
in  this  instance,  beyond  all  doubt,  both  kindly  meant  and 
kindly  taken ;  though  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  added  to 
to  the  attractions  of  the  book  into  which  it  is  introduced. 
While  no  doubt  ever  existed  as  to  this  likeness,  the  case 
may  not  seem  so  clear  with  regard  to  the  original  of  Har- 
old Skimpole.  It  would  be  far  more  pleasant  to  pass  by 
without  notice  the  controversy — if  controversy  it  can  be 
called — which  this  character  provoked ;  but  a  wrong  done 
by  one  eminent  man  of  letters  to  another,  however  unfore- 
seen its  extent  may  have  been,  and  however  genuine  the 
endeavour  to  repair  its  effect,  becomes  part  of  literary  his- 
tory. That  the  original  of  Harold  Skimpole  was  Leigh 
Hunt  cannot  reasonably  be  called  into  question.  This  as- 
sertion by  no  means  precludes  the  possibility,  or  probabili- 
ty, that  a  second  original  suggested  certain  features  in  the 
portrait.  Nor  does  it  contradict  the  substantial  truthful- 
ness of  Dickens's  own  statement,  published  in  All  the  Year 
Round  after  Leigh  Hunt's  death,  on  the  appearance  of  the 
("new  edition  of  the  Autobiography  with  Thornton  Hunt's 
admirable  introduction.  While,  Dickens  then  wrote,  "he 
yielded  to  the  temptation  of  too  often  making  the  charac- 
ter speak  like  his  old  friend,"  yet  "  he  no  more  thought, 
God  foroive  him  !  that  the  admired  original  would  ever  be 


120  DICKENS.  [chap. 

charged  with  the  imaginary  vices  of  the  fictitious  creature, 
than  he  had  himself  ever  thought  of  charging  the  blood  of 
Desdemona  and  Othello  on  the  innocent  Academy  model 
who  sat  for  lago's  leg  in  the  picture.  Even  as  to  the  mere 
occasional  manner,"  he  declared  that  he  had  "  altered  the 
•whole  of  that  part  of  the  text,  when  two  intimate  friends 
of  Leigh  Hunt — both  still  living — discovered  too  strong 
a  resemblance  to  his  '  way.' "  But,  while  accepting  this 
statement,  and  suppressing  a  regret  that  after  discovering 
the  dangerous  closeness  of  the  resemblance  Dickens  should 
have,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  story,  introduced  a  satirical 
reference  to  Harold  Skimpole's  autobiography  —  Leigh 
Hunt's  having  been  published  only  a  year  or  two  before 
— one  must  confess  that  the  explanation  only  helps  to 
prove  the  rashness  of  the  offence.  "While  intending  the 
portrait  to  keep  its  own  secret  from  the  general  public, 
Dickens  at  the  same  time  must  have  wished  to  gratify  a 
few  keen-sighted  friends.  In  March,  1852,  he  writes  to 
Forster,  evidently  in  reference  to  the  apprehensions  of  his 
correspondent:  "Browne  has  done  Skimpole,  and  helped 
to  make  him  singularly  unlike  the  great  original."  The 
"  great  original "  was  a  man  for  whom,  both  before  and 
after  this  untoward  incident  in  the  relations  between  them, 
Dickens  professed  a  warm  regard,  and  who,  to  judge  from 
the  testimony  of  those  who  knew  him  welV  ^^^nd  from  his 
unaffected  narrative  of  his  own  life,  abundantly  deserved 
it.  A  perusal  of  Leigh  Hunt's  Autohiographj  suffices  to 
show  that  he  used  to  talk  in  Skimpole's  manner,  and  even 

^  Among  these  is  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland,  the  author  of  the  Bibliog- 
raphy of  Leigh  Hunt  and  ffazlift,  who  has  kindly  communicated  to 
me  part  of  his  collections  concerning  the  former.  The  tittle-tattle 
against  Leigh  Hunt  repeated  by  Lord  Macaulay  is,  on  the  face  of  it, 
unworthy  of  notice. 


v.]  CHANGES.  121 

to  write  in  it ;  that  he  was  at  one  period  of  his  life  alto- 
gether ignorant  of  money  matters,  and  that  he  cultivated 
cheerfulness  on  principle.  But  it  likewise  shows  that  his 
ignorance  of  business  was  acknowledged  by  hira  as  a  mis- 
fortune in  which  he  was  very  far  from  exulting.  "Do  I 
boast  of  this  ignorance  ?"  he  writes.  "  Alas !  I  have  no 
such  respect  for  the  pedantry  of  absurdity  as  that.  I 
blush  for  it,  and  I  only  record  it  out  of  a  sheer  painful 
movement  of  conscience,  as  a  warning  to  those  young  au- 
thors who  might  be  led  to  look  upon  such  folly  as  a  fine 
thing,  which  at  all  events  is  what  I  never  thought  it  my- 
self." On  the  other  hand,  as  his  son  showed,  his  cheer- 
fulness, which  was  not  inconsistent  with  a  natural  prone- 
ness  to  intervals  of  melancholy,  rested  on  grounds  which 
were  the  result  of  a  fine  as  well  as  healthy  morality.  "  The 
value  of  cheerful  opinions,"  he  wrote,  in  words  embodying 
a  moral  that  Dickens  himself  was  never  weary  of  enforc- 
ing, "  is  inestimable  ;  they  will  retain  a  sort  of  heaven 
round  a  man,  when  everything  else  might  fail  him,  and 
consequently  they  ought  to  be  religiously  inculcated  upon 
his  children."  At  the  same  time,  no  quality  was  more 
conspicuous  in  his  life  than  his  readiness  for  hard  work, 
even  under  the  most  depressing  circumstances ;  and  no 
feature  was  more  marked  in  his  moral  character  than  his 
conscientiousness.  "In  the  midst  of  the  sorest  tempta- 
tions," Dickens  wrote  of  him, "  he  maintained  his  honesty 
unblemished  by  a  single  stain ;  and  in  all  public  and  pri- 
vate transactions  he  was  the  very  soul  of  truth  and  hon- 
our." To  mix  up  with  the  outward  traits  of  such  a  man 
the  detestable  obliquities  of  Harold  Skimpole  was  an  ex- 
periment paradoxical  even  as  a  mere  piece  of  character- 
drawing.  The  merely  literary  result  is  a  failure,  while  a 
wound  was  needlessly  inflicted,  if  not  upon  Leigh  Hunt 
6* 


122  DICKENS.  [chap. 

himself,  at  least  upon  all  who  cherished  his  friendship  or 
good  name.  Dickens  seems  honestly  and  deeply  to  have 
regretted  -what  he  had  done,  and  the  extremely  tasteful  lit- 
tle tribute  to  Leigh  Hunt's  poetic  gifts  which,  some  years 
before  the  death  of  the  latter,  Dickens  wrote  for  Household 
Words,^  must  have  partaken  of  the  nature  of  an  amende 
honorable.  Neither  his  subsequent  repudiation  of  unfriend- 
ly intentions,  nor  his  earlier  exertions  on  Leigh  Hunt's  be- 
half, are  to  be  overlooked,  but  they  cannot  undo  a  mistake 
which  forms  an  unfortunate  incident  in  Dickens's  literary 
life,  singularly  free  though  that  life,  as  a  whole,  is  from  the 
miseries  of  personal  quarrels,  and  all  the  pettinesses  with 
which  the  world  of  letters  is  too  familiar. 

While  Dickens  was  engaged  upon  a  literary  work  such 
as  would  have  absorbed  the  intellectual  energies  of  most 
men,  he  not  only  wrote  occasionally  for  his  journal,  but 
also  dictated  for  publication  in  it,  the  successive  portions 
of  a  book  altogether  outside  his  usual  range  of  authorship. 
This  was  A  Child's  History  of  England^  the  only  one  of 
his  works  that  was  not  written  by  his  own  hand.  A  his- 
tory of  England,  written  by  Charles  Dickens  for  his  own 
or  any  one  else's  children,  was  sure  to  be  a  different  work 
from  one  written  under  similar  circumstances  by  Mr.  Free- 
man or  the  late  M.  Guizot.  The  book,  though  it  cannot 
be  called  a  success,  is,  however,  by  no  means  devoid  of 
interest.  Just  ten  years  earlier  he  had  written,  and  print- 
ed, a  history  of  England  for  the  benefit  of  his  eldest  son, 
then  a  hopeful  student  of  the  age  of  five,  which  was  com- 
posed, as  he  informed  Douglas  Jerrold  at  the  time,  "  in  the 
exact  spirit"  of  that  advanced  politician's  paper,  "for  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  he  were  to  get  hold  of 
any  Conservative  or  High  Church  notions;  and  the  best 
'  Bif  Rail  to  Parnasms,  June  1 0,  1 855. 


v.]  CHANGES.  123 

way  of  guarding  against  any  sncli  horrible  result  is,  I  take 
it,  to  wring  the  parrots'  necks  in  his  very  cradle."  The 
Child's  History  of  England  is  written  in  the  same  spirit, 
and  illustrates  more  directly,  and,  it  must  be  added,  more 
coarsely,  than  any  of  Dickens's  other  works  his  hatred  of 
ecclesiasticism  of  all  kinds.  Thus,  the  account  of  Dunstan 
is  pervaded  by  a  prejudice  which  is  the  fruit  of  anything 
but  knowledge  ;  Edward  the  Confessor  is  "  the  dreary  old  " 
and  "  the  maudlin  Confessor ;"  and  the  Pope  and  what  be- 
longs to  him  are  treated  with  a  measure  of  contumely  which 
would  have  satisfied  the  heart  of  Leigh  Hunt  himself.  To 
be  sure,  if  King  John  is  dismissed  as  a  "  miserable  brute," 
King  Henry  the  Eighth  is  not  more  courteously  designated 
as  a  "  blot  of  blood  and  grease  upon  the  history  of  Eng- 
land." On  the  other  band,  it  could  hardly  be  but  that 
certain  passages  of  the  national  story  should  be  well  told 
by  so  great  a  master  of  narrative ;  and  though  the  strain 
in  which  parts  of  the  history  of  Charles  the  Second  are 
recounted  strikes  one  as  hardly  suitable  to  the  young,  to 
whom  irony  is  in  general  caviare  indeed,  yet  there  are 
touches  both  in  the  story  of  "this  merry  gentleman" — a 
designation  which  almost  recalls  Fagin — and  elsewhere  in 
the  book  not  unworthy  of  its  author.  Its  patriotic  spirit 
is  quite  as  striking  as  its  Radicalism ;  and  vulgar  as  some 
of  its  expressions  must  be  called,  there  is  a  pleasing  glow 
in  the  passage  on  King  Alfred,  which  declares  the  "Eng- 
lish-Saxon" character  to  have  been  "the  greatest  character 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth  ;"  and  there  is  a  yet  nobler 
enthusiasm,  such  as  it  would  indeed  be  worth  any  writer's 
while  to  infuse  into  the  young,  in  the  passionate  earnest- 
ness with  which,  by  means  of  the  story  of  Agincourt,  the 
truth  is  enforced  that  "  nothing  can  make  war  otherwise 
than  horrible." 


124  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

This  book  must  have  been  dictated,  and  some  at  least 
of  the  latter  portion  of  Bleak  House  written,  at  Bo-ulogne, 
where,  after  a  spring  sojourn  at  Brighton,  Dickens  spent  the 
summer  of  1853,  and  where  were  also  passed  the  summers 
of  1854  and  1856.  Boulogne,  where  Le  Sage's  last  years 
were  spent,  was  Our  French  Watering-2Jlace,  so  graphical- 
ly described  in  a  paper  in  Household  Words  as  a  compan- 
ion picture  to  the  old  familiar  Broadstairs.  The  family 
were  comfortably  settled  on  a  green  hill-side  close  to  the 
town,  "  in  a  charming  garden  in  a  very  pleasant  country," 
with  "  excellent  light  wines  on  the  premises,  French  cook- 
ery, millions  of  roses,  two  cows — for  milk-punch — vegeta- 
bles cut  for  the  pot,  and  handed  in  at  the  kitchen  win- 
dow ;  five  summer-houses,  fifteen  fountains — with  no  water 
in  'em — and  thirty-seven  clocks — keeping,  as  I  conceive, 
Australian  time,  having  no  reference  whatever  to  the  hours 
on  this  side  of  the  globe."  The  energetic  owner  of  the 
Villa  des  Moulineaux  was  the  "M.  Loyal  Devasseur"  of 
Our  French  Watering -2olac€ — jovial,  convivial,  genial,  sen- 
timental too  as  a  Buonapartist  and  a  patriot.  In  1854 
the  same  obliging  personage  housed  the  Dickens  family  in 
another  abode,  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  close  to  the  famous 
Napoleonic  column;  but  in  1856  they  came  back  to  the 
Moulineaux.  The  former  year  had  been  an  exciting  one 
for  Englishmen  in  France,  with  royal  visits  to  and  fro  to 
testify  to  the  entente  cordiale  between  the  governments. 
Dickens,  notwithstanding  his  humorous  assertions,  was 
only  moderately  touched  by  the  Sebastopol  fever;  but 
when  a  concrete  problem  came  before  him  in  the  shape  of 
a  festive  demonstration,  he  addressed  himself  to  it  with 
the  irrepressible  ardour  of  the  born  stage-manager.  "  In 
our  own  proper  illumination,"  he  writes,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  Prince  Consort's  visit  to  the  camp  at  Boulogne,  "  I 


v.]  CHANGES.  125 

laid  on  all  the  servants,  all  tlie  children  now  at  home,  all 
the  visitors,  one  to  every  window,  with  everything  ready 
to  light  up  on  the  ringing  of  a  big  dinner-bell  by  your 
humble  correspondent.  St.  Peter's  on  Easter  Monday  was 
the  result." 

Of  course,  at  Boulogne,  Dickens  was  cut  off  neither 
from  his  business  nor  from  his  private  friends.  His  hos- 
pitable invitations  were  as  urgent  to  his  French  villa  in 
the  summer  as  to  his  London  house  in  the  winter,  and 
on  both  sides  of  the  water  the  Household  Words  familiars 
were  as  sure  of  a  welcome  from  their  chief.  During  his 
absences  from  London  he  could  have  had  no  trustier  lieu- 
tenant than  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  with  whom,  being  always 
ready  to  throw  himself  into  a  part,  he  corresponded  in  an 
amusing  paragraphed,  semi-official  style.  And  neither  in 
his  working  nor  in  his  leisure  hours  had  he  by  this  time 
any  more  cherished  companion  than  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins, 
whose  progress  towards  brilliant  success  he  was  watching 
with  the  keenest  and  kindliest  interest.  With  him  and 
his  old  friend  Augustus  Egg,  Dickens,  in  October,  1853, 
started  on  a  tour  to  Switzerland  and  Italy,  in  the  course 
of  which  he  saw  more  than  one  old  friend,  and  revisited 
more  than  one  known  scene — ascending  Vesuvius  with 
Mr.  Layard  and  drinking  punch  at  Rome  with  David  Rob- 
erts. It  would  be  absurd  to  make  any  lofty  demands 
upon  the  brief  records  of  a  holiday  journey ;  and,  for  my 
part,  I  would  rather  think  of  Dickens  assiduous  over  his 
Christmas  number  at  Rome  and  at  Venice,  than  weigh  his 
moralisings  about  the  electric  telegraph  running  through 
the  Coliseum.  His  letters  written  to  his  wife  during  this 
trip  are  bright  and  gay,  and  it  was  certainly  no  roving 
bachelor  who  "  kissed  almost  all  the  children  he  encoun- 
tered in  remembrance  of  the  sweet  faces  "  of  his  own,  and 


126  DICKENS.  [chap. 

"talked  to  all  the  mothers  who  carried  tliem."  By  the 
middle  of  December  the  travellers  were  home  again,  and 
before  the  year  was  out  he  had  read  to  large  audiences  at 
Birmingham,  on  behalf  of  a  public  institution,  his  favour- 
ite Christmas  stories  of  The  Christmas  Carol  and  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth.  As  yet,  however,  his  mind  was 
not  seriously  intent  upon  any  labours  but  those  proper  to 
his  career  as  an  author,  and  the  year  1854  saw,  between 
the  months  of  April  and  August,  the  publication  in  his 
journal  of  a  new  story,  which  is  among  the  most  charac- 
teristic, though  not  among  the  most  successful,  of  his 
works  of  fiction. 

In  comparison  with  most  of  Dickens's  novels.  Hard 
Times  is  contained  within  a  narrow  compass  ;  and  this,  with 
the  further  necessity  of  securing  to  each  successive  small 
portion  of  the  story  a  certain  immediate  degree  of  effect- 
iveness, accounts,  in  some  measure,  for  the  peculiarity  of 
the  impression  left  by  this  story  upon  many  of  its  readers. 
Short  as  the  story  relatively  is,  few  of  Dickens's  fictions 
were  elaborated  with  so  much  care,  lie  had  not  intended 
to  write  a  new  story  for  a  twelvemonth,  when,  as  he  says, 
"  the  idea  laid  hold  of  him  by  the  throat  in  a  very  violent 
manner,"  and  the  labour,  carried  on  under  conditions  of 
peculiar  irksomeness,  "used  him  up"  after  a  quite  un- 
accustomed fashion.  The  book  thus  acquired  a  precision 
of  form  and  manner  which  commends  it  to  the  French 
school  of  criticism  rather  than  to  lovers  of  English  humour 
in  its  ampler  forms  and  more  flowing  moods.  At  the 
same  time  the  work  has  its  purpose  so  visibly  imprinted 
on  its  front,  as  almost  to  forbid  our  regarding  it  in  the 
first  instance  apart  from  the  moral  which  avowedly  it  is 
intended  to  inculcate.  This  moral,  by  no  means  new 
with  Dickens,  has  both  a  negative  and  a  positive  side. 


v.]  CHANGES.  127 

"Do  not  harden  your  hearts,"  is  the  negative  injunction, 
more  especially  do  not  harden  them  against  the  prompt- 
ings of  that  human  kindness  which  should  draw  together 
man  and  man,  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor;  and  keep 
your  sympathies  fresh  by  bringing  nourishment  to  them 
through  channels  which  prejudice  or  short-sightedness 
would  fain  narrow  or  stop  up.  This  hortatory  purpose 
assumes  the  form  of  invective  and  even  of  angry  menace ; 
and  "utilitarian  economists,  skeletons  of  school  -  masters, 
commissioners  of  facts,  genteel  and  used-up  infidels,  gab- 
blers of  many  little  dog's-eared  creeds,"  are  warned: 
"  The  poor  you  have  always  with  you.  Cultivate  in  them, 
while  there  is  yet  time,  the  utmost  graces  of  the  fancies 
and  affections,  to  adorn  their  lives,  so  much  in  need  .of  or- 
nament; or,  in  the  day  of  your  triumph,  when  romance  is 
utterly  driven  out  of  their  souls,  and  they  and  a  bare  ex- 
istence stand  face  to  face,  reality  will  take  a  wolfish  turn, 
and  make  an  end  of  you." 

No  authority,  however  eminent,  not  even  Mr.  Ruskin's, 
is  required  to  teach  reflecting  minds  the  infinite  impor- 
tance of  the  principles  which  Hard  Times  was  intended 
to  illustrate.  Nor  is  it  of  much  moment  whether  the 
illustrations  are  always  exact ;  whether  the  "  commission- 
ers of  facts  "  have  reason  to  protest  that  the  unimagina- 
tive character  of  their  processes  does  not  necessarily  imply 
an  unimaginative  purpose  in  their  ends ;  whether  there  is 
any  actual  Coketown  in  existence  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  Manchester;  or  whether  it  suflSces  that  "everybody 
knew  what  was  meant,  but  every  cotton -spinning  town 
said  it  was  the  other  cotton-spinning  town."  The  chief 
personal  grievance  of  Stephen  Blackpool  has  beefi  removed 
or  abated,  but  the  "  muddle  "  is  not  yet  altogether  cleared 
up  which  prevents  the  nation  and  the  "  national  dustmen," 


128  DICKENS.  [chap. 

its  law-givers,  from  impartially  and  sympathetically  further- 
ing the  interest  of  all  classes.  In  a  word,  the  moral  of 
Hard  Times  has  not  yet  lost  its  force,  however  imperfect 
or  unfair  the  method  may  have  been  in  which  it  is  urged 
in  the  book. 

Unfortunately,  however,  a  work  of  art  with  a  didactic 
purpose  is  only  too  often  prone  to  exaggerate  what  seems 
of  special  importance  for  the  purpose  in  question,  and  to 
heighten  contrasts  which  seem  likely  to  put  it  in  the  clear- 
est light.  "Thomas  Gradj,'rind,  sir"  —  who  announces 
himself  with  something  of  the  genuine  Lancashire  roll — 
and  his  system  are  a  sound  and  a  laughable  piece  of  satire, 
to  begin  with,  only  here  and  there  marred  by  the  satirist's 
imperfect  knowledge  of  the  details  which  he  caricatures. 
The  "Manchester  School,"  which  the  novel  strives  to  ex- 
pose, is  in  itself  to  a  great  extent  a  figment  of  the  imag- 
ination, which  to  this  day  serves  to  round  many  a  hollow 
period  in  oratory  and  journalism.  Who,  it  may  fairly  be 
asked,  were  the  parliamentary  politicians  satirized  in  the 
member  for  Coketown,  deaf  and  blind  to  any  considera- 
tion but  the  multiplication-table?  But  in  any  case  the 
cause  hardly  warrants  one  of  its  consequences  as  depicted 
in  the  novel — the  utter  brutalization  of  a  stolid  nature  like 
"the  Whelp's."  When  Gradgrind's  son  is  about  to  be 
shipped  abroad  out  of  reach  of  the  penalties  of  his  crime, 
he  reminds  his  father  that  he  merely  exemplifies  the  sta- 
tistical law  that  "  so  many  people  out  of  so  many  will  be 
dishonest."  When  the  virtuous  Bitzer  is  indignantly  ask- 
ed whether  he  has  a  heart,  he  replies  that  he  is  physiolog- 
ically assured  of  the  fact;  and  to  the  further  inquiry 
whether  this  heart  of  his  is  accessible  to  compassion, 
makes  answer  that  "  it  is  accessible  to  reason,  and  to  noth- 
ing else."     These  returnings  of  Mr.  Gradgrind's  philoso- 


v.]  CHANGES.  129 

phy  upon  hiraself  savour  of  the  moral  justice  represented 
by  Gratiano  in  the  fourth  act.  So,  again,  Coketown,  with 
its  tall  chimneys  and  black  river,  and  its  thirteen  religious 
denominations,  to  which  whoever  else  belonged  the  work- 
ing-men did  not^  is  no  perverse  contradiction  of  fact.  But 
the  influence  of  Coketown,  or  of  a  whole  wilderness  of 
Coketowns,  cannot  justly  be  charged  with  a  tendency  to 
ripen  sucli  a  product  as  Josiah  Bounderby,  who  is  not 
only  the  "  bully  of  humanity,"  but  proves  to  be  a  mean- 
spirited  impostor  in  his  pretensions  to  the  glory  of  self- 
help.  In  short,  Hard  Times  errs  by  its  attempt  to  prove 
too  much. 

Apart,  however,  from  the  didactic  purposes  which  over- 
burden it,  the  pathos  and  humour  of  particular  portions  of 
this  tale  appear  to  me  to  have  been  in  no  wise  overrated. 
The  domestic  tragedy  of  Stephen  and  Rachael  has  a  sub- 
dued intensity  of  tenderness  and  melancholy  of  a  kind 
rare  with  Dickens,  upon  whom  the  example  of  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell  in  this  instance  may  not  have  been  without  its  in- 
fluence. Nor  is  there  anything  more  delicatel}^  and  at  the 
same  time  more  appropriately  conceived  in  any  of  his 
works  than  poor  Rachael's  dominion  over  the  imagination 
as  well  as  over  the  affections  of  her  noble-minded  and  un- 
fortunate lover:  "As  the  shining  stars  were  to  the  heavy 
candle  in  the  window,  so  was  Rachael,  in  the  rugged  fancy 
of  this  man,  to  the  common  experiences  of  his  life."  The 
love-story  of  poor  Louisa  is  of  a  different  kind,  and  more 
wordy  in  the  telling;  yet  here  also  the  feelings  painted 
are  natural  and  true.  The  humorous  interest  is  almost 
entirely  concentrated  upon  the  company  of  horse-riders ; 
and  never  has  Dickens's  extraordinary  power  of  humorous 
observation  more  genially  asserted  itself.  From  Mr.  Sleary 
— "  thtout  man,  game-eye  " — and  his  protagonist,  Mr.  E. 


130  DICKENS.  [chap. 

W.  B.  Childers,  wlio,  when  lie  shook  his  long  hair,  caused 
it  to  "shake  all  at  once,"  down  to  Master  Kidderminster, 
who  used  to  form  the  apex  of  the  human  pyramids,  and 
"in  whose  young  nature  there  was  an  original  flavour  of 
the  misanthrope,"  these  honest  equestrians  are  more  than 
worthy  to  stand  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  and 
his  company  of  actors ;  and  the  fun  has  here,  in  addition 
to  the  grotesqueness  of  the  earlier  picture,  a  mellowness 
of  its  own.  Dickens's  comic  genius  was  never  so  much  at 
its  ease  and  so  inexhaustible  in  ludicrous  fancies  as  in  the 
depiction  of  such  groups  as  this;  and  the  horse-riders, 
skilfully  introduced  to  illustrate  a  truth,  wholesome  if  not 
novel,  would  have  insured  popularity  to  a  far  less  interest- 
ing and  to  a  far  less  powerful  fiction. 

The  year  after  that  which  saw  the  publication  of  Hard 
Times  was  one  in  which  the  thoughts  of  most  Englishmen 
were  turned  away  from  the  problems  approached  in  that 
story.  But  if  the  military  glories  of  1854  had  not  aroused 
in  him  any  very  exuberant  enthusiasm,  the  reports  from 
the  Crimea  in  the  ensuing  winter  were  more  likely  to  ap- 
peal to  his  patriotism  as  well  as  to  his  innate  impatience 
of  disorder  and  incompetence.  In  the  first  instance,  how- 
ever, he  contented  himself  with  those  grumblings  to  which, 
as  a  sworn  foe  of  red  tape  and  a  declared  disbeliever  in 
our  parliamentary  system,  he  might  claim  to  have  a  spe- 
cial right ;  and  he  seems  to  have  been  too  restless  in  and 
about  himself  to  have  entered  very  closely  into  the  progress 
of  public  affairs.  The  Christmas  had  been  a  merry  one 
at  Tavistock  House;  and  the  amateur  theatricals  of  its 
juvenile  company  had  passed  through  a  most  successful 
season.  Their  history  has  been  written  by  one  of  the 
performers  — himself  not  the  least  distinguished  of  the 
company,  since  it  was  he  who,  in  Dickens's  house,  caused 


v.]  CHANGES.  131 

Thackeray  to  roll  off  bis  seat  in  a  fit  of  langliter.  Dick- 
ens, tvLo  \Yith  Mark  Lemon  disported  himself  among  these 
precocious  minnows,  was,  as  our  chronicler  relates,  like 
Triplet,  "  author,  manager,  and  actor  too,"  organiser,  de- 
viser, and  harmoniser  of  all  the  incongruous  assembled 
elements;  it  was  he  "who  improvised  costumes,  painted 
and  corked  our  innocent  cheeks,  and  suggested  all  the 
most  effective  business  of  the  scene."  But,  as  was  usual 
with  him,  the  transition  was  rapid  from  play  to  something 
very  like  earnest;  and  already,  in  June,  1855,  the  Tavis- 
tock House  theatre  produced  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins's  melo- 
drama of  The  Light-house,  which  afterwards  found  its  way 
to  the  public  stage.  To  Dickens,  who  performed  in  it 
with  the  author,  it  afforded  "  scope  for  a  piece  of  acting 
of  great  power,"  the  old  sailor  Aaron  Gurnock,  which  by 
its  savage  picturesqueness  earned  a  tribute  of  recognition 
from  Carlyle.  No  less  a  hand  than  Stanfield  painted  the 
scenery,  and  Dickens  himself,  besides  writing  the  prologue, 
introduced  into  the  piece  a  ballad  called  The  Story  of  the 
Wreck,  a  not  unsuccessful  effort  in  Cowper's  manner.  At 
Christmas,  1856 -'57,  there  followed  The  Frozen  Deep, 
another  melodrama  by  the  same  author ;  and  by  this  time 
the  management  of  his  private  theatricals  had  become  to 
Dickens  a  serious  business,  to  be  carried  on  seriously  for 
its  own  sake.  "  It  was  to  him,"  he  wrote,  "  like  writing  a 
book  in  company;"  and  his  young  people  might  learn 
from  it  "that  kind  of  humility  which  is  got  from  the 
earned  knowledge  that  whatever  the  right  hand  finds  to 
do  must  be -done  with  the  heart  in  it,  and  in  a  desperate 
earnest."  The  Frozen  Deep  was  several  times  repeated, 
on  one  occasion  for  the  benefit  of  the  daughter  of  the 
recently  deceased  Douglas  Jerrold ;  but  by  the  end  of 
January  the    little   theatre   was  finally  broken    up ;    and 


132  DICKENS.  [chap. 

tLougli  Dickens  spent  one  more  winter  season  at  Tavi- 
stock House,  the  shadow  was  then  ah-eady  falling  upon 
his  cheerful  home. 

In  the  midst  of  his  children's  Christmas  gaieties  of  the 
year  1855  Dickens  had  given  two  or  three  public  read- 
ings to  "wonderful  audiences"  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  A  trip  to  Paris  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  had  fol- 
lowed, during  which,  as  he  wrote  home,  he  was  wandering 
about  Paris  all  day,  dining  at  all  manner  of  places,  and 
frequenting  the  theatres  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  a  night. 
"  I  suppose,"  be  adds,  with  pleasant  self-irony,  "  as  an  old 
farmer  said  of  Scott,  I  am  *  makin'  mysel"  all  the  time; 
but  I  seem  to  be  rather  a  free-and-easy  sort  of  superior 
vagabond."  And  in  truth  a  roving,  restless  spirit  was 
strong  upon  liim  in  these  years.  Ah'cady,  in  April,  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  "  going  off ;  I  don't  know  where  or 
how  far,  to  ponder  about  I  don't  know  what."  France, 
Switzerland,  Spain,  Constantinople,  in  Mr.  Layard's  com- 
pany, had  been  successively  in  his  thoughts,  and,  for  aught 
he  knew,  Greenland  and  the  North  Pole  mio-ht  occur  to 
him  next.  At  the  same  time  he  foresaw  that  the  end  of 
it  all  would  be  his  shutting  himself  up  in  some  out-of-the- 
way  place  of  which  he  had  not  yet  thought,  and  going 
desperately  to  work  there. 

Before,  however,  these  phantasmagoric  schemes  had  sub- 
sided into  the  quiet  plan  of  an  autumn  visit  to  Folkestone, 
followed  during  the  winter  and  spring  by  a  residence  at 
Paris,  he  had  at  least  found  a  subject  to  ponder  on,  which 
was  to  suggest  an  altogether  novel  element  in  his  next 
work  of  fiction.  I  have  said  that  though,  like  the  major- 
ity of  his  fellow-countrymen,  Dickens  regarded  our  war 
with  Russia  as  inevitable,  yet  his  hatred  of  all  war,  and  his 
impatience  of  the  exaggerations  of  passion  and  sentiment 


y.]  CHxVXGES.  133 

whicli  all  war  produces,  had  preserved  him  from  himself 
falling  a  victim  to  their  contagion.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  in  the  winter  of  1854-'55  the  note  of  exultation  in 
the  bravery  of  our  soldiers  in  the  Crimea  began  to  be  in- 
termingled with  complaints  against  the  grievously  defec- 
tive arrangements  for  their  comfort  and  health,  and  when 
these  complaints,  stimulated  by  the  loud-voiced  energy  of 
the  press,  and  extending  into  censures  upon  the  whole 
antiquated  and  perverse  system  of  our  army  administra- 
tion, speedily  swelled  into  a  roar  of  popular  indignation, 
sincere  conviction  ranged  him  on  the  side  of  the  most  un- 
compromising malcontents.  He  was  at  all  times  ready  to 
give  vent  to  that  antipathy  against  officialism  which  is 
shared  by  so  large  a  number  of  Englishmen.  Though  the 
son  of  a  dock-yard  official,  he  is  found  roundly  asserting 
that  "more  obstruction  of  good  things  and  patronage  of 
bad  things  has  been  committed  in  the  dock-yards — as  in 
everything  connected  with  the  misdirection  of  the  navy — 
than  in  every  other  branch  of  the  public  service  put  to- 
gether, including  " — the  particularisation  is  hard — "  even 
the  Woods  and  Forests."  He  had  listened,  we  may  be 
sure,  to  the  scornful  denunciations  launched  by  the  prophet 
of  the  Latter-Day  PamjMets  against  Downing  Street  and 
all  its  works,  and  to  the  proclamation  of  the  great  though 
rather  vague  truth  that  "  reform  in  that  Downing  Street 
department  of  affairs  is  precisely  the  reform  which  were 
worth  all  others."  And  now  the  heart-rending  sufferings 
of  multitudes  of  brave  men  had  brought  to  light,  in  one 
department  of  the  public  administration,  a  series  of  com- 
plications and  perversities  which  in  the  end  became  so 
patent  to  the  Government  itself  that  they  had  to  be  rough- 
ly remedied  in  the  very  midst  of  the  struggle.  The  cry 
for  administrative  reform,  which  arose  in  the  year  1855, 


134  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

however  crude  tbe  form  it  frequently  took,  was  in  itself  a 
logical  enough  result  of  the  situation ;  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  angriness  of  the  complaint  was  intensified 
by  the  attitude  taken  up  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  the 
Lead  of  the  Government  towards  the  pertinacious  politi- 
cian who  made  himself  the  mouthpiece  of  the  extreme  de- 
mands of  the  feeling  outside.  Mr.  Layard  was  Dickens's 
valued  friend ;  and  the  share  is  thus  easily  explained 
which — against  his  otherwise  uniform  practice  of  abstain- 
ing from  public  meetings — the  most  popular  writer  of  the 
day  took  in  the  Administrative  Reform  meetings,  held  in 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  on  June  27,  1855.  The  speech 
which  he  delivered  on  this  occasion,  and  which  was  intend- 
ed to  aid  in  forcing  the  "whole  question"  of  Administra- 
tive Reform  upon  the  attention  of  an  unwilling  Govern- 
ment, possesses  no  value  whatever  in  connexion  with  its 
theme,  though  of  course  it  is  not  devoid  of  some  smart  and 
telling  hits.  Not  on  the  platform,  but  at  his  desk  as  an  au- 
thor, was  Dickens  to  do  real  service  to  the  cause  of  admin- 
istrative efficiency.  For  whilst  invective  of  a  general  kind 
runs  off  like  water  from  the  rock  of  usage,  even  Circumlocu- 
tion Offices  are  not  insensible  to  the  acetous  force  of  satire. 
Dickens's  caricature  of  British  officialism  formed  the 
most  generally  attractive  element  in  the  story  of  Little 
Dorrit — originally  intended  to  be  called  Nobody'' s  Fault 
— -whicli  he  published  in  monthly  numbers,  from  Decem- 
ber, 1855,  that  year,  to  June,  1857.  He  was  solemnly 
taken  to  task  for  his  audacity  by  the  Edinhurfjh  Review^ 
which  reproached  him  for  his  persistent  ridicule  of  "the 
institutions  of  the  country,  the  laws,  the  administration, 
in  a  word,  the  government  under  which  we  live."  His 
"charges"  were  treated  as  hardly  seriously  meant,  but  as 
worthy  of  severe  reprobation,  because  likely  to  be  serious- 


v.]  CHANGES.  135 

\y  taken  by  the  poor,  the  uneducated,  and  the  young. 
And  the  caricaturist,  besides  being  reminded  of  the  names 
of  several  eminent  public  servants,  was  specially  requested 
to  look,  as  upon  a  picture  contrasting  with  his  imaginary 
Circumlocution  Office,  upon  the  Post  Office,  or — for  the 
the  choice  offered  was  not  more  extensive — upon  the  Lon- 
don police,  so  liberally  praised  by  himself  in  his  own  jour- 
nal. The  delighted  author  of  Little  JDorrit  replied  to  this 
not  very  skilful  diatribe  in  a  short  and  spirited  rejoinder 
in  Household  Words.  In  this  he  judiciously  confined  him- 
self to  refuting  an  unfounded  incidental  accusation  in  the 
Edinburgh  article,  and  to  dwelling,  as  upon  a  "  Curious 
Misprint,"  upon  the  indignant  query:  "How  does  he  ac- 
count for  the  career  of  Mr.  Roivland  Hill?''''  whose  name, 
as  an  example  of  the  ready  intelligence  of  the  Circumlocu- 
tion Office,  was  certainly  an  odd  erratum.  Had  he,  how- 
ever, cared  to  make  a  more  general  reply  to  the  main  article 
of  the  indictment,  he  might  have  pointed  out  that,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  our  official  administrative  machinery  had  re- 
cently broken  down  in  one  of  its  most  important  branches, 
and  that  circumlocution  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word — 
circumlocution  between  department  and  department,  or  of- 
fice and  office — had  been  one  of  the  principal  causes  of  the 
collapse.  The  general  drift  of  the  satire  was,  therefore,  in 
accordance  with  fact,  and  the  satire  itself  salutary  in  its 
character.  To  quarrel  with  it  for  not  taking  into  consid- 
eration what  might  be  said  on  the  other  side,  was  to  quai*- 
rel  with  the  method  of  treatment  which  satire  has  at  all 
times  considered  itself  entitled  to  adopt ;  while  to  stigma- 
tise a  popular  book  as  likely  to  mislead  the  ill-informed, 
was  to  suggest  a  restraint  which  would  have  deprived  wit 
and  humour  of  most  of  their  opportunities  of  rendering 
service  to  either  a  good  or  an  evil  cause. 


136  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

Afar  more  legitimate  exception  has  been  taken  to  these 
Circumlocution  Office  episodes  as  defective  in  art  by  the 
very  reason  of  their  being  exaggerations.  Those  best  ac- 
quainted with  the  interiors  of  our  government  offices  may 
be  right  in  denying  that  the  Barnacles  can  be  regarded  as 
an  existing  type.  Indeed,  it  would  at  no  time  have  been 
easy  to  point  to  any  office  quite  as  labyrinthine,  or  quite 
as  bottomless,  as  that  permanently  presided  over  by  Mr. 
Tite  Barnacle ;  to  any  chief  secretary  or  commissioner  so 
absolutely  wooden  of  fibre  as  he ;  or  to  any  private  secre- 
tary so  completely  absorbed  in  his  eye-glass  as  Barnacle 
junior.  But  as  satirical  figures  they  one  and  all  fulfil  their 
purpose  as  thoroughly  as  the  picture  of  the  official  sanc- 
tum itself,  with  its  furniture  "  in  the  higher  official  man- 
ner," and  its  "general  bamboozling  air  of  how  not  to  do 
it."  The  only  question  is,  whether  satire  which,  if  it  is  to 
be  effective,  must  be  of  a  piece  and  in  its  way  exaggerated, 
is  not  out  of  place  in  a  pathetic  and  humorous  fiction, 
where,  like  a  patch  of  too  diverse  a  thread,  it  interferes 
with  the  texture  into  which  it  is  introduced.  In  them- 
selves these  passages  of  Little  Dorrit  deserve  to  remain 
unforgotten  amongst  the  masterpieces  of  literary  carica- 
ture ;  and  there  is,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  something  of 
Swiftian  force  in  their  grotesque  embodiment  of  a  popular 
current  of  indignation.  The  mere  name  of  the  Circumlo- 
cution Office  was  a  stroke  of  genius,  one  of  those  phrases 
of  Dickens  which  Professor  Masson  justly  describes  as, 
whether  exaggerated  or  not,  "efficacious  for  social  re- 
form." As  usual,  Dickens  had  made  himself  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  formal  or  outside  part  of  his  subject; 
the  very  air  of  Whitehall  seems  to  gather  round  us  as 
Mr.  Tite  Barnacle,  in  answer  to  a  persistent  enquirer  who 
"  wants  to  know "  the  position   of  a  particular  matter, 


v.]  CHANGES.  137 

concedes  that  it  "  may  have  been,  in  the  course  of  official 
business,  referred  to  the  Circumlocution  Office  for  its  con- 
sideration," and  that  "the  department  may  have  either 
originated,  or  confirmed,  a  minute  on  the  subject."  In 
the  Household  Words  paper  called  A  Poor  Mail's  Tale 
of  a  Patent  (1850)  will  be  found  a  sufficiently  elaborate 
study  for  Mr.  Doyce's  experiences  of  the  government  of 
his  country,  as  wrathfully  narrated  by  Mr.  Meagles. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Circumlocution  Office  pas- 
sages— ndventitious  as  they  are  to  the  progress  of  the  ac- 
tion— Little  Dorrit  exhibits  a  palpable  falliug-uff  in  in- 
ventive power.  Forster  illustrates  by  a  striking  fac-simile 
the  difference  between  the  "  labour  and  pains  "  of  the  au- 
thor's short  notes  for  Little  Dorrit  and  the  "  lightness  and 
confidence  of  handling  "  in  what  hints  he  had  jotted  down 
for  David  Coi^perjield.  Indeed,  his  "  tablets  "  had  about 
this  time  begun  to  be  an  essential  part  of  his  literary 
equipment.  But  in  Little  Dorrit  there  are  enough  in- 
ternal signs  of,  possibly  unconscious,  lassitude.  The  earlier, 
no  doubt,  is,  in  every  respect,  the  better  part  of  the  book ; 
or,  rather,  the  later  part  shows  the  author  wearily  at  work 
upon  a  canvas  too  wide  for  him,  and  filling  it  up  with  a 
crowd  of  personages  in  whom  it  is  difficult  to  take  much 
interest.  Even  Mr.  Merdle  and  his  catastrophe  produce 
the  effect  rather  of  a  ghastly  allegory  than  of  an  "  extrav- 
agant conception,"  as  the  author  ironically  called  it  in  his 
preface,  derived  only  too  directly  from  real  life.  In  the 
earlier  part  of  the  book,  in  so  far  as  it  is  not  once  again 
concerned  with  enforcing  the  moral  of  Hard  Times  in  a 
different  way,  by  means  of  Mrs.  Clennam  and  her  son's 
early  history,  the  humour  of  Dickens  plays  freely  over  the 
figure  of  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea.  It  is  a  psycho- 
logical masterpiece  in  its  way ;  but  the  revolting  selfishness 
7 


138  DICKENS.  [chap. 

of  Little  Dorrit's  father  is  not  redeemed  artistically  by  her 
own  long-suffering ;  for  her  pathos  lacks  the  old  irresisti- 
ble ring.  Doubtless  much  in  this  part  of  the  story — the 
whole  episode,  for  instance,  of  the  honest  turnkey — is  in 
the  author's  best  manner.  But,  admirable  as  it  is,  this 
new  picture  of  prison-life  and  prison-sentiment  has  an  un- 
dercurrent of  bitterness,  indeed,  almost  of  conteraptuous- 
ness,  foreign  to  the  best  part  of  Dickens's  genius.  This 
is  still  more  perceptible  in  a  figure  not  less  true  to  life 
than  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea  himself  —  Flora,  the 
overblown  flower  of  Arthur  Clen nam's  boyish  love.  The 
humour  of  the  conception  is  undeniable,  but  the  whole  ef- 
fect is  cruel ;  and,  though  greatly  amused,  the  reader  feels 
almost  as  if  he  were  abetting  a  profanation.  Dickens 
could  not  have  become  what  he  is  to  the  great  multitude 
of  his  readers  had  he,  as  a  humourist,  often  indulged  in 
this  cynical  mood. 

There  is  in  general  little  in  the  characters  of  this  fiction 
to  compensate  for  the  sense  of  oppression  from  which,  as 
he  follows  the  slow  course  of  its  far  from  striking  plot,  the 
reader  finds  it  difiicult  to  free  himself.  A  vein  of  genuine 
humour  shows  itself  in  Mr.  Plornish,  obviously  a  favourite 
of  the  author's,  and  one  of  those  genuine  working-men,  as 
rare  in  fiction  as  on  the  stage,  where  Mr.  Toole  has  repro- 
duced the  species ;  but  the  relation  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Plornish  is  only  a  fainter  revival  of  that  between  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bagney.  Nor  is  there  anything  fresh  or  novel  in  the 
characters  belonging  to  another  social  sphere.  Ilenry 
Gowan,  apparently  intended  as  an  elaborate  study  in  psy- 
chology, is  only  a  very  tedious  one ;  and  his  mother  at 
Hampton  Court,  whatever  phase  of  a  dilapidated  aristoc- 
racy she  may  be  intended  to  caricature,  is  merely  ill-bred. 
As  for  Mrs.  General,  she  is  so  sorry  a  burlesque  that  she 


v.]  CHANGES.  139 

could  not  be  reproduced  without  extreme  caution  even  on 
the  stage — to  the  reckless  conventionalities  of  which,  in- 
deed, the  whole  picture  of  the  Dorrit  family  as  nouveaux 
riches  bears  a  striking  resemblance.  There  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, some  good  caricature,  which,  in  one  instance  at  least, 
was  thought  transparent  by  the  knowing,  in  the  silhouettes 
of  the  great  Mr.  Merdle's  professional  guests;  but  these 
are,  like  the  Circumlocution  Oflice  puppets,  satiric  sketches, 
not  the  living  figures  of  creative  humour. 

I  have  spoken  of  this  story  with  a  censure  which  may 
be  regarded  as  exaggerated  in  its  turn.  But  I  well  remem- 
ber, at  the  time  of  its  publication  in  numbers,  the  general 
consciousness  that  Little  Dorrit  was  proving  unequal  to 
the  high-strung  expectations  which  a  new  work  by  Dick- 
ens then  excited  in  his  admirers,  both  young  and  old. 
There  w^ere  new  and  striking  features  in  it,  with  abundant 
comic  and  serious  effect,  but  there  was  no  power  in  the 
whole  story  to  seize  and  hold,  and  the  feeling  could  not  be 
escaped  that  the  author  was  not  at  his  best.  And  Dickens 
was  not  at  his  best  when  he  wrote  Little  Dorrit.  Yet  while 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  the  literary  career  of  Dickens 
than  this  apparently  speedy  decline  of  his  power,  nothing  is 
more  wonderful  in  it  than  the  degree  to  which  he  righted 
himself  again,  not,  indeed,  with  his  public,  for  the  public 
never  deserted  its  favourite,  but  with  his  genius. 

A  considerable  part  of  Little  Dorrit  must  have  been 
written  in  Paris,  where,  in  October,  after  a  quiet  autumn 
at  Folkestone,  Dickens  had  taken  a  family  apartment  in 
the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees,  "  about  half  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  above  Franconi's."  Here,  after  his  fashion,  he 
lived  much  to  himself,  his  family,  and  his  guests,  only  oc- 
casionally finding  his  way  into  a  literary  or  artistic  salon ; 
but  he  sat  for  his  portrait  to  both  Ary  and  Henri  Scheffer, 


140  DICKENS.  [chap. 

and  was  easily  persuaded  to  read  his  Cricket  on  the  Hearth 
to  an  audience  in  the  atelier.  Macready  and  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins  were  in  turn  the  companions  of  many  "theatrical 
and  lounging"  evenings.  Intent  as  Dickens  now  had 
become  upon  the  technicalities  of  his  own  form  of  com- 
position, this  interest  must  have  been  greatly  stimulated 
by  the  frequent  comparison  of  modern  French  plays,  in 
most  of  which  nicety  of  construction  and  effectiveness  of 
situation  have  so  paramount  a  significance.  At  Boulogne, 
too,  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  was  a  welcome  summer,  visitor. 
And  in  the  autumn  the  two  friends  started  on  the  Laz^/ 
Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices.  It  came  to  an  untimely 
end  as  a  pedestrian  excursion,  but  the  record  of  it  is  one 
of  the  pleasantest  memorials  of  a  friendship  which  bright- 
ened much  of  Dickens's  life  and  intensified  his  activity  in 
work  as  well  as  in  pleasure. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  "  had  indeed  a  busy  time  of  it  in  this 
year  1857.  The  publication  of  Little  Dorrit  was  not  fin- 
ished till  June,  and  in  August  we  find  him,  between  a  read- 
ing and  a  performance  of  The  Frozen  Deep  at  Manchester 
— then  in  the  exciting  days  of  the  great  Art  Exhibition — 
thus  describing  to  Macready  his  way  of  filling  up  his  time : 
"I  hope  you  have  seen  my  tussle  with  the  Edinhurgh.  I 
saw  the  chance  last  Friday  w^eek,  as  I  was  going  down  to 
read  the  Carol  in  St.  Martin's  Hall.  Instantly  turned  to, 
then  and  there,  and  wrote  half  the  article,  flew  out  of  bed 
early  next  morning,  and  finished  it  by  noon.  Went  down 
to  Gallery  of  Illustration  (we  acted  that  night),  did  the 
day's  business,  corrected  the  proofs  in  Polar  costume  in 
dressing-room,  broke  up  two  numbers  of  Household  Words 
to  get  it  out  directly,  played  in  Frozen  Deep  and  Uncle 
John,  presided  at  supper  of  company,  made  no  end  of 
speeches,  went  home  and  gave  in  completely  for  four  hours, 


v.]  CHANGES.  141 

then  got  sound  asleep,  and  next  day  was  as  fresh  as  you 
used  to  be  in  the  far-off  days  of  your  lusty  youth."  It 
was  on  the  occasion  of  the  readings  at  St.  Martin's  Hall, 
for  the  benefit  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  family,  that  the  thought 
of  giving  readings  for  his  own  benefit  first  suggested  itself 
to  Dickens;  and,  as  will  be  seen,  by  April,  1858,  the  idea 
had  been  carried  into  execution,  and  a  new  phase  of  life 
had  begun  for  him.  And  yet  at  this  very  time,  when  his 
home  was  about  to  cease  being  in  the  fullest  sense  a  home 
to  Dickens,  by  a  strange  irony  of  fortune,  he  had  been  en- 
abled to  carry  out  a  long-cherished  fancy  and  to  take  pos- 
session, in  the  first  instance  as  a  summer  residence,  of  the 
house  on  Gad's  Hill,  of  which  a  lucky  chance  had  made 
him  the  owner  rather  more  than  a  twelvemonth  before. 

"  My  little  place,"  he  wrote  in  1858,  to  his  Swiss  friend 
Cerjat,  "  is  a  grave  red-brick  house  (thiie  of  George  the 
First,  I  suppose),  which  I  have  added  to  and  stuck  bits 
upon  in  all  manner  of  ways,  so  that  it  is  as  pleasantly  ir- 
regular, and  as  violently  opposed  to  all  architectural  ideas, 
as  the  most  hopeful  man  could  possibly  desire.  It  is  on 
the  summit  of  Gad's  Hill.  The  robbery  was  committed 
before  the  door,  on  the  man  with  the  treasure,  and  Falstaff 
ran  away  from  the  identical  spot  of  ground  now  covered 
by  the  room  in  which  I  write.  A  little  rustic  ale-house, 
called  '  The  Sir  John  Falstaff,'  is  over  the  way — has  been 
over  the  way  ever  since,  in  honour  of  the  event.  .  .  .  The 
whole  stupendous  property  is  on  the  old  Dover  road.  .  .  ." 

Among  "the  blessed  woods  and  fields"  which,  as  he 
says,  had  done  him  "  a  world  of  good,"  in  a  season  of  un- 
ceasing bodily  and  mental  unrest,  the  great  English  writer 
had  indeed  found  a  habitation  fitted  to  become  inseparable 
from  his  name  and  fame.  It  was  not  till  rather  later,  in 
1860,  that,  after  the  sale  of  Tavistock  House,  Gad's  Hill 


142  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Place  became  Lis  regular  abode,  a  London  house  being 
only  now  and  then  taken  for  the  season,  while  furnished 
rooms  were  kept  at  the  office  in  Wellington  Street  for  oc- 
casional use.  And  it  was  only  gradually  that  he  enlarged 
and  improved  his  Kentish  place  so  as  to  make  it  the  pretty 
and  comfortable  country-house  which  at  the  present  day  it 
appears  to  be ;  constructing,  in  course  of  time,  the  passage 
under  the  high-road  to  the  shrubbery,  where  the  Swiss 
chalet  given  to  him  by  Mr.  Fechter  was  set  up,  and  build- 
ing the  pretty  little  conservatory,  which,  when  completed, 
he  was  not  to  live  many  days  to  enjoy.  But  an  old-fash- 
ioned, homely  look,  free  from  the  slightest  affectation  of 
quietness,  belonged  to  Gad's  Ilill  Place,  even  after  all  these 
alterations,  and  belongs  to  it  even  at  this  day,  when  Dick- 
ens's solid  old-fashioned  furniture  has  been  changed.  In 
the  pretty  little  front  hall  still  hangs  the  illuminated  tablet 
recalling  the  legend  of  Gad's  Hill ;  and  on  the  inside  pan- 
els of  the  library  door  remain  the  facetious  sham  book- 
titles  :  "Hudson's  Comi^lete  Failure,''^  and  "  Ten  Minutes  in 
China,''^  and  "  Cats'  Lives,''^  and,  on  a  long  series  of  leather 
backs,  "  Hansard's  Guide  to  Itefreshing  Sleeps  The  rooms 
are  all  of  a  modest  size,  and  the  bedrooms — amongst  them 
Dickens's  own — very  low ;  but  the  whole  house  looks  thor- 
oughly habitable,  while  the  views  across  the  cornfields  at 
the  back  are  such  as  in  their  undulation  of  soft  outline  are 
nowhere  more  pleasant  than  in  Kent.  Rochester  and  the 
Med  way  are  near,  even  for  those  who  do  not — like  Dickens 
and  his  dogs — count  a  stretch  past  three  or  four  "  mile- 
stones on  the  Dover  road"  as  the  mere  beginning  of  an 
afternoon's  walk.  At  a  distance  little  greater  there  are  in 
one  direction  the  green  glades  of  Cobham  Park,  with  Chalk 
and  Gravcscnd  beyond;  and  in  another  the  flat  country 
towards  the  Thames,  with  its  abundance  of  market-gardens. 


v.]  CHANGES.  143 

There,  too,  are  the  marshes  on  the  border  of  ^vhich  lie  the 
massive  ruin  of  Cooling  Castle,  the  refuge  of  the  Lollard 
martyr  v^ho  was  not  concerned  in  the  affair  on  Gad's  Hill, 
and  Cooling  Church  and  church-yard,  with  the  quaint  little 
gravestones  in  the  grass.  London  and  the  office  were  with- 
in easy  reach,  and  Paris  itself  was,  for  practical  purposes, 
not  much  farther  away,  so  that,  in  later  days  at  all  events, 
Dickens  found  himself  "  crossing  the  Channel  perpetually." 

The  name  of  Dickens  still  has  a  good  sound  in  and 
about  Gad's  Hill.  He  was  on  very  friendly  terms  with 
some  families  whose  houses  stand  near  to  his  own ,'  and 
though  nothing  was  farther  from  his  nature,  as  he  says, 
than  to  "  wear  topboots  "  and  play  the  squire,  yet  he  had 
in  him  not  a  little  of  what  endears  so  many  a  resident 
country  gentleman  to  his  neighbourhood.  He  was  head 
organiser  rather  than  chief  patron  of  village  sports,  of 
cricket  matches  and  foot  races ;  and  his  house  was  a  dis- 
pensary for  the  poor  of  the  parish.  He  established  con- 
fidential relations  between  his  house  and  the  Falstaff  Inn 
over  the  way,  regulating  his  servants'  consumption  of  beer 
on  a  strict  but  liberal  plan  of  his  own  devising;  but  it  is 
not  for  this  reason  only  that  the  successor  of  Mr.  Edwin 
Trood — for  such  was  the  veritable  name  of  mine  host  of 
the  "  Falstaff"  in  Dickens's  time— declares  that  it  was  a  bad 
day  for  the  neighbourhood  when  Dickens  was  taken  away 
from  it.  In  return,  nothing  could  exceed  the  enthusiasm 
which  surrounded  him  in  his  own  country,  and  Forster  has 
described  his  astonishment  at  the  manifestation  of  it  on 
the  occasion  of  the  wedding  of  the  youngest  daughter  of 
the  house  in  1860.  And,  indeed,  he  was  born  to  be  popu- 
lar, and  specially  among  those  by  whom  he  was  beloved  as 
a  friend  or  honoured  as  a  benefactor. 

But  it  was  not  for  lono;  intervals  of  either  work  or  rest 


144  DICKENS.  [chap, 

that  Dickens  was  to  settle  down  in  his  pleasant  country 
house,  nor  was  lie  ever,  except  quite  at  the  last,  to  sit 
down  under  his  own  roof  in  peace  and  quiet,  a  wanderer 
no  more.  Less  than  a  year  after  he  had  taken  up  his  resi- 
dence for  the  summer  on  Gad's  Hill  his  home,  and  that  of 
his  younger  children,  was  his  wife's  home  no  longer.  The 
separation,  which  appears  to  have  been  preparing  itself 
for  some,  but  no  very  long,  time,  took  place  in  May,  1858, 
when,  after  an  amicable  arrangement,  Mrs.  Dickens  left  her 
husband,  who  henceforth  allowed  her  an  ample  separate 
maintenance,  and  occasionally  corresponded  with  her,  but 
never  saw  her  again.  The  younger  children  remained  in 
their  father's  house  under  the  self-sacrificing  and  devoted 
care  of  Mrs.  Dickens's  surviving  sister,  Miss  Hogarth. 
Shortly  afterwards,  Dickens  thought  it  well,  in  printed 
words  which  may  be  left  forgotten,  to  rebut  some  slander- 
ous gossip  which,  as  the  way  of  the  world  is,  had  misrep- 
resented the  circumstances  of  this  separation.  The  causes 
of  the  event  were  an  open  secret  to  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. If  he  had  ever  loved  his  wife  with  that  af- 
fection before  which  so-called  incompatibilities  of  habits, 
temper,  or  disposition  fade  into  nothingness,  there  is  no 
indication  of  it  in  any  of  his  numerous  letters  addressed 
to  her.  Neither  has  it  ever  been  pretended  that  he  strove 
in  the  direction  of  that  resignation  which  love  and  duty 
together  made  possible  to  David  Copperficld,  or  even  that 
he  remained  in  every  way  master  of  himself,  as  many  men 
have  known  how  to  remain,  the  story  of  whose  wedded 
life  and  its  disappointments  has  never  been  written  in  his- 
tory or  figured  in  fiction.  It  was  not  incumbent  upon  his 
faithful  friend  and  biographer,  and  much  less  can  it  be 
upon  one  whom  nothing  but  a  sincere  admiration  of  Dick- 
ens's genius  entitles  to  speak  of  him  at  all,  to  declare  the 


v.]  CHANGES.  145 

standard  by  wliicli  the  most  painful  transaction  in  his  Hfe 
is  to  be  judged.  I  say  the  most  painful,  for  it  is  with  a 
feeling  akin  to  satisfaction  that  one  reads,  in  a  letter  three 
years  afterwards  to  a  lady  in  reference  to  her  daughter's 
wedding :  "  I  want  to  thank  you  also  for  thinking  of  me  on 
the  occasion,  but  I  feel  that  I  am  better  away  from  it.  I 
should  really  have  a  misgiving  that  I  was  a  sort  of  a 
shadow  on  a  young  marriage,  and  you  will  understand 
me  when  I  say  so,  and  no  more.".  A  shadow,  too — who 
would  deny  it?  —  falls  on  every  one  of  the  pictures  in 
which  the  tenderest  of  modern  humourists  has  painted 
the  simple  joys  and  the  sacred  sorrows  of  that  home  life 
of  which  to  his  generation  he  had  become  almost  the 
poet  and  the  prophet,  when  we  remember  how  he  was 
liimself  neither  blessed  with  its  full  happiness  nor  capable 
of  accepting  with  resignation  the  imperfection  inherent  in 
it,  as  in  all  things  human. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LAST    YEARS. 
[ISSS-ISVO.] 

The  last  twelve  years  of  Dickens's  life  were  busy  years, 
like  the  others ;  but  his  activity  was  no  longer  merely  the 
expression  of  exuberant  force,  and  long  before  the  collapse 
came  he  had  been  repeatedly  warned  of  the  risks  he  con- 
tinued to  defy.  When,  however,  he  first  entered  upon 
those  public  readings,  by  persisting  in  which  he  indisputa- 
bly hastened  his  end,  neither  he  nor  his  friends  took  into 
account  the  fear  of  bodily  ill-effects  resulting  from  his  ex- 
ertions. Their  misgivings  had  other  grounds.  Of  course, 
had  there  been  any  pressure  of  pecuniary  difficulty  or  need 
upon  Dickens  when  he  began,  or  when  on  successive  occa- 
sions he  resumed,  his  public  readings,  there  would  be  noth- 
ing further  to  be  said.  But  I  see  no  suggestion  of  any 
such  pressure.  "  My  worldly  circumstances,"  he  wrote  be- 
fore he  had  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  read  in  America, 
"  are  very  good.  I  don't  want  money.  All  my  posses- 
sions are  free  and  in  the  best  order.  Still,"  he  added,  "  at 
fifty-five  or  fifty-six,  the  likelihood  of  making  a  very  great 
addition  to  one's  capital  in  half  a  year  is  an  immense  con- 
sideration." Moreover,  -with  all  his  love  of  doing  as  he 
chose,  and  his  sense  of  the  value  of  such  freedom  to  him 
as  a  writer,  he  was  a  man  of  simple  though  liberal  habits 
of  life,  with  no  taste  for  the  gorgeous  or  capricious  ex- 


CHAP.  VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  147 

travagances  of  a  Balzac  or  a  Dumas,  nor  can  he  have  been 
at  a  loss  how  to  make  due  provision  for  those  whom  in 
the  course  of  nature  he  would  leave  behind  him.  Love  of 
money  for  its  own  sake,  or  for  that  of  the  futilities  it  can 
purchase,  was  altogether  foreign  to  his  nature.  At  the 
same  time,  the  rapid  making  of  large  sums  has  potent  at- 
tractions for  most  men ;  and  these  attractions  are  perhaps 
strongest  for  those  who  engage  in  the  pursuit  for  the  sake 
of  the  race  as  well  as  of  the  prize.  Dickens's  readings 
were  virtually  something  new ;  their  success  was  not  only 
all  his  own,  but  unique  and  unprecedented — what  nobody 
but  himself  ever  had  achieved  or  ever  could  have  achieved. 
Yet  the  determining  motive — if  I  read  his  nature  rightly 
— was,  after  all,  of  another  kind.  "Two  souls  dwelt  in 
his  breast ;"  and  when  their  aspirations  united  in  one  ap- 
peal it  was  irresistible.  The  author  who  craved  for  the 
visible  signs  of  a  sympathy  responding  to  that  which  he 
felt  for  his  multitudes  of  readers,  and  the  actor  who  longed 
to  impersonate  creations  already  beings  of  flesh  and  blood 
to  himself,  were  both  astir  in  him,  and  in  both  capacities 
he  felt  himself  drawn  into  the  very  publicity  deprecated 
by  his  friends.  He  liked,  as  one  who  knew  him  thorough- 
ly said  to  me,  to  be  face  to  face  with  his  public ;  and 
against  this  liking,  which  he  had  already  indulged  as  fully 
as  he  could  without  passing  the  boundaries  between  private 
and  professional  life,  arguments  were  in  vain.  It  has  been 
declared  sheer  pedantry  to  speak  of  such  boundaries ;  and 
to  suggest  that  there  is  anything  degrading  in  paid  read- 
ings such  as  those  of  Dickens  would,  on  the  face  of  it,  be 
absurd.  On  the  other  hand,  the  author  who,  on  or  off  the 
stage,  becomes  the  interpreter  of  his  writings  to  large 
audiences,  more  especially  if  he  does  his  best  to  stereotype 
his  interpretation  by  constantly  repeating  it,  limits  his  own 


148  DICKENS.  [chap. 

prerogative  of  being  many  things  to  many  men;  and 
where  the  author  of  a  work,  more  particularly  of  a  work 
of  fiction,  adjusts  it  to  circumstances  differing  from  those 
of  its  production,  he  allows  the  requirements  of  the  lesser 
art  to  prejudice  the  claims  of  the  greater. 

Dickens  cannot  have  been  blind  to  these  considerations ; 
but  to  others  his  eyes  were  never  opened.  He  found 
much  that  was  inspiriting  in  his  success  as  a  reader,  and 
this  not  only  in  the  large  sums  he  gained,  or  even  in  the 
"  roaring  sea  of  response,"  to  use  his  own  fine  metaphor, 
of  which  he  had  become  accustomed  to  "  stand  upon  the 
beach."  His  truest  sentiment  as  an  author  was  touched 
to  the  quick ;  and  he  was,  as  he  says  himself,  "  brought 
very  near  to  what  he  had  sometimes  dreamed  might  be 
his  fame,"  when,  at  York,  a  lady,  whose  face  he  had  never 
seen,  stopped  him  in  the  street,  and  said  to  him,  "  Mr. 
Dickens,  will  you  let  me  touch  the  hand  that  has  filled  my 
house  with  many  friends?"  or  when,  at  Belfast,  he  was  al- 
most overwhelmed  with  entreaties  "  to  shake  hands,  Mis- 
ther  Dickens,  and  God  bless  you,  sir;  not  ounly  for  the 
light  you've  been  in  mee  house,  sir — and  God  love  your 
face ! — this  many  a  year."  On  the  other  hand — and  this, 
perhaps,  a  nature  like  his  would  not  be  the  quickest  to 
perceive — there  was  something  vulgarising  in  the  constant 
striving  after  immediate  success  in  the  shape  of  large  au- 
diences, loud  applause,  and  satisfactory  receipts.  The  con- 
ditions of  the  actor's  art  cannot  forego  these  stimulants ; 
and  this  is  precisely  his  disadvantage  in  comparison  with 
artists  who  are  able  to  possess  themselves  in  quiet.  To 
me,  at  least,  it  is  painful  to  find  Dickens  jubilantly  record- 
ing how  at  Dublin  "  eleven  bank-notes  were  thrust  into 
the  pay-box — Arthur  saw  them — at  one  time  for  eleven 
stalls ;"  how  at  Edinburgh  "  neither  Grisi,  nor  Jenny  Lind, 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  149 

nor  anything,  nor  anybody,  seems  to  make  the  least  effect 
on  the  draw  of  the  readings ;"  while,  every  allowance  be- 
ino;  made,  there  is  something^  almost  ludicrous  in  the  dou- 
ble  assertion,  that  "  the  most  delicate  audience  I  had  ever 
seen  in  any  provincial  place  is  Canterbury ;  but  the  audi- 
ence with  the  greatest  sense  of  humour  certainly  is  Dover." 
What  subjects  for  parody  Dickens  would  have  found  in 
these  innocent  ecstasies  if  uttered  by  any  other  man ! 
Undoubtedly,  this  enthusiasm  was  closely  connected  with 
the  very  thoroughness  with  which  he  entered  into  the 
work  of  his  readings.  "You  have  no  idea,"  he  tells  Fors- 
ter,  in  1867,  "how  I  have  worked  at  them.  Finding  it 
necessary,  as  their  reputation  widened,  that  they  should  be 
better  than  at  first,  /  have  learnt  them  all,  so  as  to  have  no 
mechanical  drawback  in  looking  after  the  words.  I  have 
tested  all  the  serious  passion  in  them  by  everything  I 
know;  made  the  humorous  points  much  more  humorous; 
corrected  my  utterance  of  certain  words ;  cultivated  a  self- 
possession  not  to  be  disturbed ;  and  made  myself  master 
of  the  situation."  "From  ten  years  ago  to  last  night,"  he 
writes  to  his  son  from  Baltimore  in  1868,  "I  have  never 
read  to  an  audience  but  I  have  watched  for  an  opportunity 
of  strikino-  out  somcthinor  better  somewhere."  The  fresh- 
ness  with  which  he  returned  night  after  night  and  season 
after  season  to  the  sphere  of  his  previous  successes,  was 
itself  a  genuine  actor's  gift.  "  So  real,"  he  declares,  "  are 
my  fictions  to  myself,  that,  after  hundreds  of  nights,  I 
come  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  freshness  to  that  little  red 
table,  and  laugh  and  cry  with  my  hearers  as  if  I  had  never 
stood  there  before." 

Dickens's  first  public  readings  were  given  at  Birming- 
ham, during  the  Christmas  week  of  1853 -'54,  in  sup- 
port of  the  new  Midland  Institute ;  but  a  record — for  the 


150  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

authenticity  of  which  I  cannot  vouch — remains,  that  'vvith 
true  theatrical  instinct  he,  before  the  Christmas  in  ques- 
tion, gave  a  trial  reading  of  the  Christmas  Carol  to  a 
smaller  public  audience  at  Peterborough.  He  had  since 
been  repeatedly  found  willing  to  read  for  benevolent  pur- 
poses ;  and  the  very  fact  that  it  had  become  necessary  to 
decline  some  of  these  frequent  invitations  had  again  sug- 
gested the  possibility — which  had  occurred  to  him  eleven 
years  before — of  meeting  the  demand  in  a  different  way. 
Yet  it  may,  after  all,  be  doubted  whether  the  idea  of  un- 
dertaking an  entire  series  of  paid  public  readings  would 
have  been  carried  out,  had  it  not  been  for  the  general  rest- 
lessness which  had  seized  upon  Dickens  early  in  1858, 
when,  moreover,  he  had  no  special  task  cither  of  labour  or 
of  leisure  to  absorb  him,  and  when  he  craved  for  excite- 
ment more  than  ever.  To  go  home — in  this  springtime 
of  1858 — was  not  to  find  there  the  peace  of  contentment. 
"  I  must  do  something ^^  he  wrote  in  March  to  his  faithful 
counsellor,  "  or  I  shall  wear  my  heart  away.  I  can  see  no 
better  thing  to  do  that  is  half  so  hopeful  in  itself,  or  half 
so  well  suited  to  my  restless  state." 

So  by  April  the  die  was  cast,  and  on  the  29th  of  that 
month  he  had  entered  into  his  new  relation  with  the  pub- 
lic. One  of  the  strongest  and  most  genuine  impulses  of 
his  nature  had  victoriously  asserted  itself,  and  according 
to  his  wont  he  addressed  himself  to  his  task  with  a  relent- 
less vigour  which  flinched  from  no  exertion.  He  began 
with  a  brief  series  at  St.  Martin's  Hall,  and  then,  his  inval- 
uable friend  Arthur  Smith  continuing  to  act  as  his  man- 
ager, he  contrived  to  cram  not  less  than  eighty-seven  read- 
ings into  three  months  and  a  half  of  travelhng  in  the 
"  provinces,"  including  Scotland  and  Ireland.  A  few  win- 
ter readings  in  London,  and  a  short  supplementary  course 


vi.]  LAST  YEARS.  151 

in  the  country  during  October,  1859,  completed  this  first 
series.  Already,  in  1858,  we  find  him,  in  a  letter  from 
Ireland,  complaining  of  the  "tremendous  strain,"  and  de- 
claring, "I  seem  to  be  always  either  in  a  railway  carriage, 
or  reading,  or  going  to  bed.  I  get  so  knocked  up,  when- 
ever I  have  a  minute  to  remember  it,  that  then  I  go  to 
bed  as  a  matter  of  course."  But  the  enthusiasm  which 
everywhere  welcomed  him — I  can  testify  to  the  thrill  of 
excitement  produced  by  his  visit  to  Cambridge,  in  Octo- 
ber, 1859 — repaid  him  for  his  fatigues.  Scotland  thawed 
to  him,  and  with  Dublin — where  his  success  was  extraor- 
dinary—  he  was  so  smitten  as  to  think  it  at  first  sight 
"  pretty  nigh  as  big  as  Paris."  In  return,  the  Boots  at 
Morrison's  expressed  the  general  feeling  in  a  patriotic 
point  of  view :  " '  Whaat  sart  of  a  hoose,  sur  V  he  asked 
me.  *  Capital.'  '  The  Lard  be  praised,  for  the  'onor  o' 
Dooblin.'" 

The  books,  or  portions  of  books,  to  which  he  confined 
himself  during  this  first  series  of  readings  were  few  in 
number.  They  comprised  the  Carol  and  the  Chimes,  and 
two  stories  from  earlier  Christmas  numbers  of  Household 
Words — may  the  exclamation  of  the  soft-hearted  chamber- 
maid at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn,  "  It's  a  shame  to  part  'em  1" 
never  vanish  from  my  memory ! — together  with  the  epi- 
sodic readings  of  the  Trial  in  Pichwiclc,  Mrs.  Gamp,  and 
Paul  Domhey.  Of  these  the  Pickwick,  which  I  heard 
more  than  once,  is  still  vividly  present  to  me.  The  only 
drawback  to  the  complete  enjoyment  of  it  was  the  lurking 
fear  that  there  had  been  some  tampering  with  the  text, 
not  to  be  condoned  even  in  its  author.  But  in  the  way 
of  assumption  Charles  Mathews  the  elder  himself  could 
have  accomplished  no  more  Protean  effort.  The  lack- 
lustre eye  of  Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh,  the  forensic  hitch  of 


152  DICKEXS.  [cuAP. 

Mr.  Serjeant  Biizfuz,  and  the  hopeless  impotence  of  Mr. 
Nathaniel  Winkle  were  alike  incomparable.  And  if  the 
success  of  the  impersonation  of  Mr.  Samuel  Weller  was 
less  complete — although  Dickens  had  formerly  acted  the 
character  on  an  amateur  stage — the  reason  probably  was 
that,  by  reason  of  his  endless  store  of  ancient  and  modern 
instances,  Sam  had  himself  become  a  quasi-mythical  being, 
■whom  it  was  almost  painful  to  find  reproduced  in  flesh 
and  blood. 

I  have  not  hesitated  to  treat  these  readings  by  Dickens 
as  if  they  had  been  the  performances  of  an  actor ;  and  the 
description  would  apply  even  more  strongly  to  his  later 
readings,  in  which  he  seemed  to  make  his  points  in  a  more 
accentuated  fashion  than  before.  "His  readings,"  says 
Mr.  C.  Kent,  in  an  interesting  little  book  about  them, 
"  were,  in  the  fullest  meaning  of  the  words,  singularly  in- 
genious and  highly -elaborated  histrionic  performances." 
As  such  they  had  been  prepared  with  a  care  such  as  few 
actors  bestow  upon  their  parts,  and — for  the  book  was  pre- 
pared not  less  than  the  reading — not  all  authors  bestow 
upon  their  plays.  Now,  the  art  of  reading,  even  in  the 
case  of  dramatic  works,  has  its  own  laws,  which  even  the 
most  brilliant  readers  cannot  neglect  except  at  their  peril. 
A  proper  pitch  has  to  be  found,  in  the  first  instance,  be- 
fore the  exceptional  passages  can  be,  as  it  were,  marked 
off  from  it;  and  the  absence  of  this  ground-tone  some- 
times interfered  with  the  total  effect  of  a  reading  by  Dick- 
ens. On  the  other  hand,  the  exceptional  passages  were,  if 
not  uniformly,  at  least  generally  excellent ;  nor  am  I  at  all 
disposed  to  agree  with  Forster  in  preferring,  as  a  rule,  the 
humorous  to  the  pathetic.  At  the  same  time,  there  was 
noticeable  in  these  readings  a  certain  hardness  which  com- 
petent critics  likewise  discerned  in  Dickens's  acting,  and 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  153 

■wliicli  could  not,  at  least  in  the  former  case,  be  regarded 
as  an  ordinary  cliaracteristic  of  dilettanteism.  The  truth 
is  that  he  isolated  his  parts  too  sharply  —  a  frequent 
fault  of  English  acting,  and  one  more  detrimental  to 
the  total  effect  of  a  reading  than  even  to  that  of  an  acted 
play. 

Xo  sooner  had  the  heaviest  stress  of  the  first  series  of 
readings  ceased  than  Dickens  was  once  more  at  work 
upon  a  new  fiction.  The  more  immediate  purpose  was 
to  insure  a  prosperous  launch  to  the  journal  which,  in  the 
spring  of  1859,  took  the  place  oi  Household  Words.  A 
dispute,  painful  in  its  origin,  but  ending  in  an  amicable 
issue,  had  resulted  in  the  purchase  of  that  journal  by 
Dickens;  but  already  a  little  earlier  he  had — as  he  was 
entitled  to  do — begun  the  new  venture  of  All  the  Year 
Round,  with  which  Household  Words  was  afterwards  in- 
corporated. The  first  number,  published  on  April  30, 
contained  the  earliest  instalment  of  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities, 
which  was  completed  by  November  20  following. 

This  story  holds  a  unique  place  amongst  the  fictions  of 
its  author.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  difference  between 
it  and  his  other  novels  may  seem  to  lie  in  the  all  but  entire 
absence  from  it  of  any  humour  or  attempt  at  humour ;  for 
neither  the  brutalities  of  that  "  honest  tradesman,"  Jerry, 
nor  the  laconisms  of  Miss  Pross,  can  well  be  called  by  that 
name.  Not  that  his  sources  of  humour  were  drying  up, 
even  though,  about  this  time,  he  contributed  to  an  Ameri- 
can journal  a  short  "  romance  of  the  real  world,"  Hunted 
Doiun,  from  which  the  same  relief  is  again  conspicuously 
absent.  For  the  humour  of  Dickens  was  to  assert  itself 
with  unmistakable  force  in  his  next  longer  fiction,  and  was 
even  before  that,  in  some  of  his  occasional  papers,  to  give 
delightful  proofs  of  its  continued  vigour.     In  the  case  of 


154  DICKENS.  [chap. 

the  Tale  of  Tivo  Cities,  he  had  a  new  and  distinct  design 
in  his  mind  which  did  not,  indeed,  exclude  humour,  but 
with  which  a  liberal  indulgence  in  it  must  have  seriously 
interfered.  "  I  set  myself,"  he  writes,  "  the  little  task  of 
writing  a  picturesque  story,  rising  in  every  chapter  with 
characters  true  to  nature,  but  whom  the  story  itself  should 
express  more  than  they  should  express  themselves  by  dia- 
logue. I  mean,  in  other  words,  that  I  fancied  a  story  of 
incident  might  be  written,  in  place  of  the  bestiality  that  is 
written  under  that  pretence,  pounding  the  characters  out 
in  its  own  mortar,  and  beating  their  own  interests  out  of 
them."  lie  therefore  renounced  his  more  usual  method  in 
favour  of  one  probably  less  congenial  to  him.  Yet,  in  his 
own  opinion  at  least,  he  succeeded  so  well  in  the  under- 
taking, that  when  the  story  was  near  its  end  he  could  vent- 
ure to  express  a  hope  that  it  was  "the  best  story  he  had 
written."  So  much  praise  will  hardly  be  given  to  this 
novel  even  by  admirers  of  the  French  art  of  telling  a  story 
succinctly,  or  by  those  who  can  never  resist  a  rather  hys- 
terical treatment  of  the  French  Revolution. 

In  my  own  opinion  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  is  a  skilfully 
though  not  perfectly  constructed  novel,  which  needed  but 
little  substantial  alteration  in  order  to  be  converted  into 
a  not  less  effective  stage-play.  And  with  such  a  design 
Dickens  actually  sent  the  proof-sheets  of  the  book  to  his 
friend  Regnicr,  in  the  fearful  hope  that  he  might  approve 
of  the  project  of  its  dramatisation  for  a  French  theatre. 
Cleverly  or  clumsily  adapted,  the  tale  of  the  Revolution 
and  its  sanguinary  vengeance  was  unlikely  to  commend 
itself  to  the  Imperial  censorship ;  but  an  English  version 
was,  I  believe,  afterwards  very  fairly  successful  on  the 
boards  of  the  Adelphi,  where  Madame  Celeste  was  cer- 
tainly in  her  right  place  as  Madame  Defarge,  an  excellent 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  155 

character  for  a  melodrama,  though  rather  wearisome  as 
she  Hes  in  wait  through  half  a  novel. 

The  construction  of  this  story  is,  as  I  have  said,  skilful 
but  not  perfect.  Dickens  himself  successfully  defended 
his  use  of  accident  in  bringing  about  the  death  of  Ma- 
dame Defargo.  The  real  objection  to  the  conduct  of  this 
episode,  however,  lies  in  the  inadequacy  of  the  contrivance 
for  leaving  Miss  Pross  behind  in  Paris.  Too  much  is  also, 
I  think,  made  to  turn  upon  the  three  words  "  and  their 
descendants" — non-essential  in  the  original  connexion — by 
which  Dr.  Manette's  written  denunciation  becomes  fatal  to 
those  he  loves.  Still,  the  general  edifice  of  the  plot  is  solid ; 
its  interest  is,  notwithstanding  the  crowded  background, 
concentrated  with  much  skill  upon  a  small  group  of  person- 
ages ;  and  Carton's  self-sacrifice,  admirably  prepared  from 
the  very  first,  produces  a  legitimate  tragic  effect.  At  the 
same  time  the  novelist's  art  vindicates  its  own  claims.  Not 
only  does  this  story  contain  several  narrative  episodes  of 
remarkable  power — such  as  the  flight  from  Paris  at  the 
close,  and  the  touching  little  incident  of  the  seamstress, 
told  in  Dickens's  sweetest  pathetic  manner — but  it  is  like- 
wise enriched  by  some  descriptive  pictures  of  unusual  ex- 
cellence :  for  instance,  the  sketch  of  Dover  in  the  good 
old  smuggling  times,  and  the  mezzo -tint  of  the  stormy 
evening  in  Soho.  Doubtless  the  increased  mannerism  of 
the  style  is  disturbing,  and  this  not  only  in  the  high-strung 
French  scenes.  As  to  the  historical  element  in  this  novel, 
Dickens  modestly  avowed  his  wish  that  he  might  by  his 
story  have  been  able  "to  add  something  to  the  popular 
and  picturesque  means  of  understanding  that  terrible  time, 
though  no  one  can  hope  to  add  anything  to  Mr.  Carlyle's 
wonderful  book."  But  if  Dickens  desired  to  depict  the 
noble  of  the  ancien  regime,  either  according  to  Carlyle  or 


156  DICKENS.  [chap. 

according  to  intrinsic  probability,  lie  should  not  have  of- 
fered, in  his  Marquis,  a  type  historically  questionable,  and 
unnatural  besides.  The  description  of  the  Saint  Antoine, 
before  and  during  the  bursting  of  the  storm,  has  in  it  more 
of  truthfulness,  or  of  the  semblance  of  truthfulness ;  and 
Dickens's  perception  of  the  physiognomy  of  the  French 
workman  is,  I  think,  remarkably  accurate.  Altogether, 
the  book  is  an  extraordinary  tow  deforce,  which  Dickens 
never  repeated. 

The  opening  of  a  new  story  by  Dickens  gave  the  neces- 
sary impetus  to  his  new  journal  at  its  earliest  stage;  nor 
was  the  ground  thus  gained  ever  lost.  Mr.  AV.  H.  Wills 
stood  by  his  chief's  side  as  of  old,  taking,  more  especially 
in  later  years,  no  small  share  of  responsibility  upon  him. 
The  prospectus  of  All  the  Year  Round  had  not  in  vain 
promised  an  identity  of  principle  in  its  conduct  with  that 
of  its  predecessor;  in  energy  and  spirit  it  showed  no 
falling  off ;  and,  though  not  in  all  respects,  the  personality 
of  Dickens  made  itself  felt  as  distinctly  as  ever.  Besides 
the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  he  contributed  to  it  his  story  of 
Great  Exjyectations.  Amongst  his  contributors  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins  took  away  the  breath  of  multitudes  of  readers ; 
Mr.  Charles  Reade  disported  himself  amongst  the  facts 
which  gave  stamina  to  his  fiction  ;  and  Lord  Lytton  made 
a  daring  voyage  into  a  mysterious  country.  Thither 
Dickens  followed  him,  for  once,  in  his  Four  Stories,  not 
otherwise  noteworthy,  and  written  in  a  manner  already 
difficult  to  discriminate  from  that  of  Mr.  "Wilkie  Collins. 
For  the  rest,  the  advice  with  which  Dickens  aided  Lord 
Lytton's  progress  in  his  Strange  Story  was  neither  more 
ready  nor  more  painstaking  than  that  which  he  bestowed 
upon  his  younger  contributors,  to  more  than  one  of  whom 
he  generously  gave  the  opportunity  of  publishing  in  his 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  157 

journal  a  long  work  of  fiction.  Some  of  these  younger 
writers  were  at  this  period  amongst  his  most  frequent 
guests  and  associates ;  for  nothing  more  naturally  com- 
mended itself  to  him  than  the  encouragement  of  the 
younger  generation. 

But  though  longer  imaginative  works  played  at  least  as 
conspicuous  a  part  in  the  new  journal  as  they  had  in  the 
old,  the  conductor  likewise  continued  to  make  manifest 
his  intention  that  the  lesser  contributions  should  not  be 
treated  by  readers  or  by  writers  as  harmless  necessary 
"  padding."  For  this  purpose  it  was  requisite  not  only 
that  the  choice  of  subjects  should  be  made  with  the  ut- 
most care,  but  also  that  the  master's  hand  should  itself  be 
occasionally  visible.  Dickens's  occasional  contributions 
had  been  few  and  unimportant,  till  in  a  happy  hour  he 
began  a  series  of  papers,  including  many  of  the  pleasant- 
est,  as  well  as  of  the  mellowest,  amongst  the  lighter  pro- 
ductions of  his  pen.  As  usual,  he  had  taken  care  to  find 
for  this  series  a  name  which  of  itself  went  far  to  make  its 
fortune. 

*'  I  am  both  a  town  and  a  country  traveller,  and  am  always  on  the 
road.  Figuratively  speaking,  I  travel  for  the  great  house  of  Human 
Interest  Brothers,  and  have  rather  a  large  connexion  in  the  fancy 
goods  way.  Literally  speaking,  I  am  always  wandering  here  and 
there  from  my  rooms  in  Covent  Garden,  London — now  about  the 
city  streets,  now  about  the  country  by-roads,  seeing  many  little 
things,  and  some  great  things,  which,  because  they  interest  me,  I 
think  may  interest  others." 

The  whole  collection  of  these  Uncommercial  TrcLveller 
papers,  together  with  the  Uncommercial  Sam2yles  which 
succeeded  them  after  Dickens's  return  from  America,  and 
which  begin  with  a  graphic  account  of  his  homeward  voy- 
age Aboard  Ship^  where  the  voice  of  conscience  spoke  in 


168  DICKENS.  [chap. 

tbe  motion  of  tlie  screw,  amounts  to  thirty-seven  articles, 
and  spreads  over  a  period  of  nine  years.  They  are  neces- 
sarily of  varying  merit,  but  amongst  them  are  some  ^Yhich 
deserve  a  permanent  place  in  our  lighter  literature.  Such 
are  the  description  of  the  church-yards  on  a  quiet  evening 
in  The  City  of  the  Absent^  the  grotesque  picture  of  loneli- 
ness in  Chambers — a  favourite  theme  with  Dickens — and 
the  admirable  papers  on  Shj  JS^eighbourhoods  and  on 
Tramjjs.  Others  have  a  biographical  interest,  though 
delightfully  objective  in  treatment ;  yet  others  are  mere 
fugitive  pieces;  but  there  arc  few  without  some  of  the 
most  attractive  qualities  of  Dickens's  easiest  style. 

Dickens  contributed  other  occasional  papers  to  his  jour- 
nal, some  of  which  may  be  forgotten  without  injury  to  his 
fame.  Amongst  these  may  be  reckoned  the  rather  dreary 
George  Silverman's  Explanation  (18G8),  in  which  there  is 
nothing  characteristic  but  a  vivid  picture  of  a  set  of  rant- 
ers, led  by  a  clique  of  scoundrels ;  on  the  other  hand,  there 
will  always  be  admirers  of  the  pretty  Ilolidag  Eomance, 
published  nearly  simultaneously  in  America  and  England, 
a  nosegay  of  tales  told  by  children,  the  only  fault  of  which 
is  that,  as  with  other  children's  nosegays,  there  is  perhai)s 
a  little  too  much  of  it.  I  have  no  room  for  helping  to 
rescue  from  partial  oblivion  an  old  friend,  whose  portrait 
has  not,  I  think,  found  a  home  amongst  his  master's  collect- 
ed sketches.  Pincher's  counterfeit  has  gone  astray,  like 
Pincher  himself.  Meanwhile,  the  special  institution  of 
the  Christmas  number  flourished  in  connexion  with  All 
the  Year  Round  down  to  the  year  1867,  as  it  had  during 
the  last  five  years  of  Household  Words.  It  consisted,  with 
the  exception  of  the  very  last  number,  of  a  series  of  short 
stories,  in  a  framework  of  the  editor's  own  devising.  To 
the  authors  of  the  stories,  of  which  he  invariably  himself 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  159 

wrote  one  or  more,  lie  left  the  utmost  liberty,  at  times 
stipulating  for  nothing  but  that  tone  of  cheerful  philan- 
thropy which  he  had  domesticated  in  his  journal.  In  the 
Christmas  numbers,  which  gradually  attained  to  such  a 
popularity  that  of  one  of  the  last  something  like  a  quarter 
of  a  million  copies  were  sold,  Dickens  himself  shone  most 
conspicuously  in  the  introductory  sections;  and  some  of 
these  are  to  be  reckoned  amongst  his  very  best  descriptive 
character-sketches.  Already  in  Household  Words  Christ- 
mas numbers  the  introductory  sketch  of  the  Seven  Poor 
Travellers  from  Watt's  Charity  at  supper  in  the  Rochester 
hostelry,  and  the  excellent  description  of  a  winter  journey 
and  sojourn  at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn,  with  an  excursus  on 
inns  in  general,  had  become  widely  popular.  The  All  the 
Year  Round  numbers,  however,  largely  augmented  this 
success.  After  Tom  Tiddlers  Ground,  with  the  advent- 
ures of  Miss  Kitty  Kimmeens,  a  pretty  little  morality  in 
miniature,  teaching  the  same  lesson  as  the  vagaries  of  Mr. 
Mopes  the  hermit,  came  Somehodifs  Luggage,  with  its  ex- 
haustive disquisition  on  waiters;  and  then  the  memorable 
chirpings  of  Mrs.  LirriiKr,  in  both  Lodgings  and  Legacy, 
admirable  in  the  delicacy  of  their  pathos,  and  including  an 
inimitable  picture  of  London  lodging-house  life.  Then 
followed  the  Prescriptions  of  Dr.  Marigold,  the  eloquent 
and  sarcastic  but  tender-hearted  Cheap  Jack ;  and  Mughy 
Junction,  which  gave  words  to  the  cry  of  a  whole  nation 
of  hungry  and  thirsty  travellers.  In  the  tales  and  sketches 
contributed  by  him  to  the  Christmas  numbers,  in  addition 
to  these  introductions,  he  at  times  gave  the  rein  to  his  love 
for  the  fanciful  and  the  grotesque,  which  there  was  here 
no  reason  to  keep  under.  On  the  whole,  written,  as  in  a 
sense  these  compositions  were,  to  order,  nothing  is  more 
astonishing  in  them  than  his  continued  freshness,  against 


160  DICKENS.  [chap. 

whicli  his  mannerism  is  here  of  vanishing  importance; 
and,  inasmuch  as  after  issuing  a  last  Christmas  number  of 
a  different  kind,  Dickens  abandoned  the  custom  when  it 
had  reached  the  height  of  popular  favour,  and  when  man- 
ifold imitations  had  offered  him  the  homage  of  their  flat- 
tery, he  may  be  said  to  have  withdrawn  from  this  cam- 
paign in  his  literary  life  with  banners  flying. 

In  the  year  1859  Dickens's  readings  had  been  compar- 
atively few;  and  they  had  ceased  altogether  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  when  the  Uncommercial  Traveller  began  his 
wanderings.  The  winter  from  1859  to  1860  was  his  last 
winter  at  Tavistock  House;  and,  with  the  exception  of  his 
rooms  in  Wellington  Street,  he  had  now  no  settled  resi- 
dence but  Gad's  Hill  Place.  He  sought  its  pleasant  re- 
treat about  the  beginning  of  June,  after  the  new  experience 
of  an  attack  of  rheumatism  had  made  him  recognise  "the 
necessity  of  country  training  all  through  the  summer." 
Yet  such  was  the  recuperative  power,  or  the  indomitable 
self-confidence,  of  his  nature,  that  after  he  had  in  these 
summer  months  contributed  some  of  the  most  delightful 
Uncommercial  Traveller  papers  to  his  journal,  we  find  him 
already  in  August  "prowling  about,  meditating  a  new 
book." 

It  is  refreshing  to  think  of  Dickens  in  this  pleasant 
interval  of  country  life,  before  he  had  rushed  once  more 
into  the  excitement  of  his  labours  as  a  public  reader.  We 
may  picture  him  to  ourselves,  accompanied  by  his  dogs, 
striding  along  the  country  roads  and  lanes,  exploring  the 
haunts  of  the  country  tramps,  "  a  piece  of  Kentish  road,"  for 
instance,  "  bordered  on  either  side  by  a  wood,  and  having 
on  one  hand,  between  the  road-dust  and  the  trees,  a  skirt- 
ing patch  of  grass.  Wild  flowers  grow  in  abundance  on 
this  spot,  and  it  lies  high  and  airy,  with  a  distant  river 


Ti.]  LAST  YEAKS.  161 

stealing  steadily  away  to  the  ocean  like  a  man's  life.  To 
gain  the  mile-stone  here,  which  the  moss,  primroses,  vio- 
lets, bluebells,  and  wild  roses  would  soon  render  illegible 
but  for  peering  travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their 
sticks,  you  must  come  up  a  steep  hill,  come  which  way 
you  may."  At  the  foot  of  that  hill,  I  fancy,  lay  Dull- 
borough  town  half  asleep  in  the  summer  afternoon;  and 
the  river  in  the  distance  was  that  which  bounded  the 
horizon  of  a  little  boy's  vision  "  whose  father's  family 
name  was  Pirrip,  and  whose  Christian  name  was  Philip, 
but  whose  infant  tongue  could  make  of  both  names  noth- 
ing longer  or  more  explicit  than  Pip." 

The  story  of  Pip's  adventures,  the  novel  of  Great  Ex- 
pectations, was  thought  over  in  these  Kentish  perambula- 
tions between  Thames  and  Medway  along  the  road  which 
runs,  apparently  with  the  intention  of  running  out  to  sea, 
from  Higham  towards  the  marshes ;  in  the  lonely  church- 
yard of  Cooling  village  by  the  thirteen  little  stone -loz- 
enges, of  which  Pip  counted  only  five,  now  nearly  buried  in 
their  turn  by  the  rank  grass ;  and  in  quiet  saunters  through 
the  familiar  streets  of  Rochester,  past  the  "  queer  "  Town- 
hall  ;  and  through  the  "  Vines  "  past  the  fine  old  Restora- 
tion House,  called  in  the  book  (by  the  name  of  an  alto- 
gether different  edifice)  Satis  House.  And  the  climax  of 
the  narrative  w^as  elaborated  on  a  unique  steamboat  excur- 
sion from  London  to  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  broken  by 
a  night  at  the  "  Ship  and  Lobster,"  an  old  riverside  inn  call- 
ed "The  Ship"  in  the  story.  No  wonder  that  Dickens's 
descriptive  genius  should  become  refreshed  by  these  studies 
of  his  subject,  and  that  thus  Great  Expectations  should  have 
indisputably  become  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  his 
books.  But  it  is  something  very  much  more  at  the  same 
time.      The  Tale  of  Tivo  Cities  had  as  a  story  strongly 


162  DICKENS.  [chap. 

seized  upon  the  attention  of  the  reader.  But  in  the  earlier 
chapters  of  Great  Bxpectatlons  every  one  felt  that  Dickens 
was  himself  again.  Since  the  Yarraouth  scenes  in  David 
Co2^yerfield  he  had  written  nothing  in  which  description 
married  itself  to  sentiment  so  humorously  and  so  tender- 
ly. Uncouth,  and  slow,  and  straightforward,  and  gentle 
of  heart,  like  Mr.  Peggotty,  Joe  Gargery  is  as  new  a  con- 
ception as  he  is  a  genuinely  true  one ;  nor  is  it  easy  to 
know  under  what  aspect  to  relish  him  most — whether  dis- 
consolate in  his  Sunday  clothes,  *'  like  some  extraordinary 
bird,  standing,  as  he  did,  speechless,  with  his  tuft  of  feath- 
ers ruffled,  and  his  mouth  open  as  if  he  wanted  a  worm,"  or 
at  home  by  his  own  fireside,  winking  at  his  little  comrade, 
and,  when  caught  in  the  act  by  his  wife,  "drawing  the  back 
of  his  hand  across  his  nose  with  his  usual  conciliatory 
air  on  such  occasions."  Nor  since  David  Copinvjield  had 
Dickens  again  shown  such  an  insight  as  he  showed  here 
into  the  world  of  a  child's  mind.  "  To  be  quite  sure,"  he 
wrote  to  Forster,  "  I  had  fallen  into  no  unconscious  repe- 
titions, I  read  David  Copinrjield  again  the  other  day,  and 
was  affected  by  it  to  a  degree  you  would  hardly  believe." 
His  fears  were  unnecessary;  for  with  all  its  charm  the 
history  of  Pip  lacks  the  personal  element  which  insures 
our  sympathy  to  the  earlier  story  and  to  its  hero.  In 
delicacy  of  feeling,  however,  as  well  as  in  humour  of  de- 
scription, nothing  in  Dickens  surpasses  the  earlier  chap- 
ters of  Great  Expectations ;  and  equally  excellent  is  the 
narrative  of  Pip's  disloyalty  of  heart  toward  his  early 
friends,  down  to  his  departure  from  the  forge,  a  picture 
of  pitiable  selfishness  almost  Rousseau-like  in  its  fidelity 
to  poor  human  nature;  down  to  his  comic  humiliation, 
when  in  the  pride  of  his  new  position  and  his  new  clothes, 
before   "  that   unlimited   miscreant,  Trabb's   boy."      The 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  163 

later  and  especially  the  concluding  portions  of  this  novel 
contain  much  that  is  equal  in  power  to  its  opening;  but 
it  must  be  allowed  that,  before  many  chapters  have  ended, 
a  false  tone  finds  its  way  into  the  story.  The  whole  his- 
tory of  Miss  Ilavisham,  and  the  crew  of  relations  round 
the  unfortunate  creature,  is  strained  and  unnatural,  and 
Estella's  hardness  is  as  repulsive  as  that  of  Edith  Dombey 
herself.  Mr.  Jaggers  and  his  house-keeper,  and  even  Mr. 
Wemmicb,  have  an  element  of  artificiality  in  them,  whilst 
about  the  Pocket  family  there  is  little,  if  anything  at  all, 
that  is  real.  The  story,  however,  seems  to  recover  itself 
as  the  main  thread  in  its  deftly-woven  texture  is  brought 
forward  again :  w^hen  on  a  dark,  gusty  night,  ominous  of 
coming  trouble,  the  catastrophe  of  Pip's  expectations  an- 
nounces itself  in  the  return  from  abroad  of  his  unknown 
benefactor,  the  convict  whom  he  had  as  a  child  fed  on  the 
marshes.  The  remainder  of  the  narrative  is  successful  in 
conveying  to  the  reader  the  sense  of  sickening  anxiety 
wdiich  fills  the  hero ;  the  interest  is  skilfully  sustained  by 
the  introduction  of  a  very  strong  situation — Pip's  narrow 
escape  out  of  the  clutches  of  "  Old  Orlick  "  in  the  lime-kiln 
on  the  marshes;  and  the  climax  is  reached  in  the  admi- 
rably-executed narrative  of  the  convict's  attempt,  with  the 
aid  of  Pip,  to  escape  by  the  river.  The  actual  winding- 
up  of  Great  Expectations  is  not  altogether  satisfactory ; 
but  on  the  whole  the  book  must  be  ranked  among  the 
very  best  of  Dickens's  later  novels,  as  combining,  with  the 
closer  construction  and  intenser  narrative  force  common 
to  several  of  these,  not  a  little  of  the  delightfully  genial 
humour  of  his  earlier  works. 

Already,  before  Great  Expectations  was  completely  pub- 
lished, Dickens  had  given  a  few  readings  at  the  St.  James's 
Hall,  and  by  the  end  of  October  in  the  same  year,  1861, 


164  DICKENS.  [chap. 

he  was  once  more  engaged  in  a  full  course  of  country 
readings.  They  occupied  him  till  the  following  January, 
only  ten  days  heing  left  for  his  Christmas  number,  and 
a  brief  holiday  for  Christmas  itself;  so  close  w^as  the  ad- 
justment of  time  and  work  by  this  favourite  of  fortune. 
The  death  of  his  faithful  Arthur  Smith  befell  most  unto- 
wardly  before  the  country  readings  were  begun,  but  their 
success  was  unbroken,  from  Scotland  to  South  Devon. 
The  long-contemplated  extract  from  Copinrjield  had  at 
last  been  added  to  the  list — a  self-sacrifice  coram  puhlico, 
hallowed  by  success — and  another  from  Nicholas  Nickleby^ 
which  "  went  in  the  wildest  manner."  He  was,  however, 
nearly  worn  out  with  fatigue  before  these  winter  readings 
were  over,  and  was  glad  to  snatch  a  moment  of  repose 
before  a  short  spring  course  in  town  began.  Scarcely  was 
this  finished,  when  he  was  coquetting  in  his  mind  with  an 
offer  from  Australia,  and  had  already  proposed  to  himself 
to  throw  in,  as  a  piece  of  ^vork  by  the  way,  a  series  of 
papers  to  be  called  The  Uncommercial  Traveller  Uimde 
Down.  Meanwhile,  a  few  readings  for  a  charitable  pur- 
pose in  Paris,  and  a  short  summer  course  at  St.  James's 
Hall,  completed  this  second  series  in  the  year  1863. 

AVhatever  passing  thoughts  overwork  by  day  or  sleep- 
lessness at  night  may  have  occasionally  brought  with 
them,  Dickens  himself  would  have  been  strangely  sur- 
prised, as  no  doubt  would  have  been  the  great  body  of  a 
public  to  which  he  was  by  this  time  about  the  best  known 
man  in  England,  had  he  been  warned  that  weakness  and 
weariness  were  not  to  be  avoided  even  by  a  nature  en- 
dowed with  faculties  so  splendid  and  with  an  energy  so 
conquering  as  his.  He  seemed  to  stand  erect  in  the 
strength  of  his  matured  powers,  equal  as  of  old  to  any 
task  which  he  set  himself,  and  exulting,  though  with  less 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  165 

buoyancy  of  spirit  than  of  old,  in  the  wreaths  which  con- 
tinued to  strew  his  path.  Yet  ah'eady  the  ranks  of  his 
contemporaries  were  growing  thinner,  while  close  to  him- 
self death  was  taking  away  members  of  the  generation 
before,  and  of  that  after,  his  own.  Amongst  them  was  his 
mother — of  whom  his  biography  and  his  works  have  little 
to  say  or  to  suggest — and  his  second  son.  Happy  events, 
too,  had  in  the  due  course  of  things  contracted  the  family 
circle  at  Gad's  Hill.  Of  his  intimates,  he  lost,  in  1863, 
Augustus  Egg;  and  in  1864  John  Leech,  to  whose  genius 
he  had  himself  formerly  rendered  eloquent  homage. 

A  still  older  associate,  the  great  painter  Stanfield,  sur- 
vived till  1867.  "  No  one  of  your  father's  friends,"  Dick- 
ens then  wrote  to  Stanfield's  son,  "  can  ever  have  loved  him 
more  dearly  than  I  always  did,  or  can  have  better  known 
the  worth  of  his  noble  character."  Yet  another  friend, 
who,  however,  so  far  as  I  can  gather,  had  not  at  any  time 
belonged  to  Dickens's  most  familiar  circle,  had  died  on 
Christmas  Eve,  1863 — Thackeray,  whom  it  had  for  some 
time  become  customary  to  compare  or  contrast  with  him 
as  his  natural  rival.  Yet  in  point  of  fact,  save  for  the 
tenderness  which,  as  with  all  humourists  of  the  highest  or- 
der, was  an  important  element  in  their  writings,  and  save 
for  the  influences  of  time  and  country  to  which  they  were 
both  subject,  there  are  hardly  two  other  amongst  our  great 
humourists  who  have  less  in  common.  Their  unlikeness 
shows  itself,  among  other  things,  in  the  use  made  by 
Thackeray  of  suggestions  which  it  is  difficult  to  believe  he 
did  not  in  the  first  instance  owe  to  Dickens.  Who  would 
venture  to  call  Captain  Costigan  a  plagiarism  from  Mr. 
Snevellici,  or  to  affect  that  Wenham  and  Wagg  were  copied 
from  Pyke  and  Pluck,  or  that  Major  Pendennis — whose 
pardon  one  feels  inclined  to  beg  for  the  juxtaposition — 


166  DICKEXS.  [chap. 

was  founded  upon  Major  Bagstock,  or  tlie  Old  Campaigner 
in  the  Ncwcomes  on  the  Old  Soldier  in  Copjyerfield?  But 
that  suggestions  were  in  these  and  perhaps  in  a  few  other 
instances  derived  from  Dickens  by  Thackeray  for  some  of 
his  most  masterly  characters,  it  would,  I  think,  be  idle  to 
deny.  In  any  case,  the  style  of  these  two  great  writers 
differed  as  profoundly  as  their  way  of  looking  at  men  and 
things.  Yet  neither  of  them  lacked  a  thorough  apprecia- 
tion of  the  other's  genius ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  remember 
that,  after  paying  in  Pendennis  a  tribute  to  the  purity  of 
Dickens's  books,  Thackeray  in  a  public  lecture  referred  to 
his  supposed  rival  in  a  way  which  elicited  from  the  latter 
the  warmest  of  acknowledgments.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
the  memorial  words  which,  after  Thackeray's  death,  Dick- 
ens was  prevailed  upon  to  contribute  to  the  Cornhill  Mag- 
azine did  more  than  justice  to  the  great  writer  whom  Eng- 
land had  just  lost;  but  it  is  well  that  the  kindly  and  un- 
stinting tribute  of  admiration  should  remain  on  record, 
to  contradict  any  supposition  that  a  disagreement  which 
had  some  years  previously  disturbed  the  harmony  of  their 
intercourse,  and  of  which  the  world  had,  according  to  its 
wont,  made  the  most,  had  really  estranged  two  generous 
minds  from  one  another.  The  effort  which  on  this  occa- 
sion Dickens  made  is  in  itself  a  proof  of  his  kindly  feeling 
towards  Thackeray.  Of  Talfourd  and  Landor  and  Stan- 
field  he  could  write  readily  after  their  deaths,  but  he  frank- 
ly told  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  that,  "  had  he  felt  he  could,"  he 
would  most  gladly  have  excused  himself  from  writing  the 
"couple  of  pages"  about  Thackeray. 

Dickens,  it  should  be  remembered,  was  at  no  time  a 
man  of  many  friends.  The  mere  dalliance  of  friendship 
was  foreign  to  one  who  worked  so  indefatigably  in  his 
hours  of  recreation  as  well  as  of  labour;  and  fellowship 


Ti.]  LAST  YEAKS.  167 

in  work  of  one  kind  or  another  seems  to  have  been,  in 
later  years  at  all  events,  the  surest  support  to  his  intimacy. 
Yet  he  was  most  easily  drawn,  not  only  to  those  who 
could  help  him,  but  to  those  whom  he  could  help  in  con- 
genial pursuits  and  undertakings.  Such  was,  no  doubt, 
the  origin  of  his  friendship  in  these  later  years  with  an 
accomplished  French  actor  on  the  English  boards,  whom, 
in  a  rather  barren  period  of  our  theatrical  histor}^,  Dickens 
may  have  been  justified  in  describing  as  "  far  beyond  any 
one  on  our  stage,"  and  who  certainly  was  an  "  admirable 
artist."  In  1864  Mr.  Fechter  had  taken  the  Lyceum,  the 
management  of  which  he  was  to  identify  with  a  more  ele- 
gant kind  of  melodrama  than  that  long  domesticated 
lower  down  the  Strand ;  and  Dickens  was  delighted  to 
bestow  on  him  counsel  frankly  sought  and  frankly  given. 
As  an  author,  too,  he  directly  associated  himself  with  the 
art  of  his  friend.^  For  I  may  mention  here  by  anticipa- 
tion that  the  last  of  the  All  the  Year  Bound  Christmas 
numbers,  the  continuous  story  of  JVo  Thoroughfare,  was 
written  by  Dickens  and  Mr.  "Wilkie  Collins  in  1867,  with 
a  direct  eye  to  its  subsequent  adaptation  to  the  stage,  for 
which  it  actually  was  fitted  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  in  the 
following  year.  The  place  of  its  production,  the  Adelphi, 
suited  the  broad  effects  and  the  rather  conventional  comic 
humour  of  the  story  and  piece.     From  America,  Dickens 

^  One  of  the  last  things  ever  written  by  Dickens  was  a  criticism 
of  M.  Fecbter's  acting,  intended  to  introduce  him  to  the  American 
public.  A  false  report,  by-the-way,  declared  Dickens  to  have  been 
the  author  of  the  dramatic  version  of  Scott's  novel,  which  at  Christ- 
mas, 1865-'66,  was  produced  at  the  Lyceum,  under  the  title  of  TTie 
Master  of  Ravenswood ;  but  he  allowed  that  he  had  done  "a  great 
deal  towards  and  about  the  piece,  having  an  earnest  desire  to  put 
Scott,  for  once,  on  the  stage  in  his  own  gallant  manner." 


168  DICKENS.  [chap. 

watched  the  preparation  of  the  piece  with  unflagging  in- 
terest ;  and  his  innate  and  irrepressible  genius  for  stage- 
management  reveals  itself  in  the  following  passage  from 
a  letter  written  by  him  to  an  American  friend  soon  after 
his  return  to  England :  "  No  Thoroughfare  is  very  shortly 
coming  out  in  Paris,  where  it  is  now  in  active  rehearsal. 
It  is  still  playing  here,  but  without  Fechter,  who  has  been 
very  ill.  He  and  Wilkie  raised  so  many  pieces  of  stage- 
effect  here,  that,  unless  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  re- 
port, I  shall  go  over  and  try  my  stage-managerial  hand  at 
the  Vaudeville  Theatre.  I  particularly  want  the  drugging 
and  attempted  robbery  in  the  bedroom-scene  at  the  Swiss 
Inn  to  be  done  to  the  sound  of  a  water-fall  rising  and  fall- 
ing with  the  wind.  Although  in  the  very  opening  of  that 
scene  they  speak  of  the  water-fall,  and  listen  to  it,  nobody 
thought  of  its  mysterious  music.  I  could  make  it,  with  a 
good  stage-carpenter,  in  an  hour." 

Great  Exjjectations  had  been  finished  in  1860,  and  al- 
ready in  the  latter  part  of  1861,  the  year  which  comprised 
the  main  portion  of  his  second  series  of  readings,  he  had 
been  thinking  of  a  new  story.  lie  had  even  found  a  title 
— the  unlucky  title  which  he  afterwards  adopted — but  in 
1862  the  tempting  Australian  invitation  had  been  a  seri- 
ous obstacle  in  his  way.  "  I  can  force  myself  to  go  aboard 
a  ship,  and  I  can  force  myself  to  do  at  that  reading-desk 
what  I  have  done  a  hundred  times ;  but  whether,  with  all 
this  unsettled,  fluctuating  distress  in  my  mind,  I  could 
force  an  original  book  out  of  it  is  another  question."  Nor 
was  it  the  "  unsettled,  fluctuating  distress  "  which  made  it 
a  serious  effort  for  him  to  attempt  another  longer  fiction. 
Dickens  shared  with  most  writers  the  experience  that  both 
the  inventive  power  and  the  elasticity  of  memory  decline 
with  advancing  years.     Already  since  the  time  when  he 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  169 

was  thinking  of  writing  Little  Dorrit  it  had  become  his 
habit  to  enter  in  a  book  kept  for  the  purpose  memoranda 
for  possible  future  use,  hints  for  subjects  of  stories/ 
scenes,  situations,  and  characters ;  thoughts  and  fancies  of 
all  kinds ;  titles  for  possible  books.  Of  these  Somebody^s 
Luggage^  Our  Mutual  Friend,  and  No  Thoroughfare — 
the  last  an  old  fancy  revived — came  to  honourable  use ;  as 
did  many  names,  both  Christian  and  surnames,  and  com- 
binations of  both.  Thus,  Bradley  Headstone's  j^rcenomen 
was  derived  directly  from  the  lists  of  the  Education  De- 
partment, and  the  Lammles  and  the  Stiltstalkings,  with 
Mr.  Merdle  and  the  Dorrits,  existed  as  names  before  the 
characters  were  fitted  to  them.  All  this,  though  no  doubt 
in  part  attributable  to  the  playful  readiness  of  an  observa- 
tion never  to  be  caught  asleep,  points  in  the  direction  of  a 
desire  to  be  securely  provided  with  an  armoury  of  which, 
in  earlier  days,  he  would  have  taken  slight  thought. 

Gradually — indeed,  so  far  as  I  know,  more  gradually  than 
in  the  case  of  any  other  of  his  stories — he  had  built  up  the 
tale  for  which  he  had  determined  on  the  title  of  Our  Mut- 
ual Friend,  and  slowly,  and  without  his  old  self-confidence, 
he  had,  in  the  latter  part  of  1863,  set  to  work  upon  it.  "  I 
want  to  prepare  it  for  the  spring,  but  I  am  determined  not 
to  begin  to  publish  with  less  than  four  numbers  done.  I 
see  my  opening  perfectly,  with  the  one  main  line  on  which 
the  story  is  to  turn,  and  if  I  don't  strike  while  the  iron 
(meaning  myself)  is  hot,  I  shall  drift  off  again,  and  have 
to  go  through  all  this  uneasiness  once  more."  For,  unfort- 
unately, he  had  resolved  on  returning  to  the  old  twenty- 
number  measure  for  his  new  story.     Begun  with  an  effort, 

'  Dickens  undoubtedly  had  a  genius  for  titles.     Amongst  some 
which  he  suggested  for  the  use  of  a  friend  and  contributor  to  his 
journal  are,  "  Wiat  will  he  do  with  itT  and  "  Can  lie  forgive  hcrP' 
8* 


170  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Our  Mutual  Friend — the  publication  of  which  extended 
from  May,  1864,  to  November,  1865 — was  completed  un- 
der difficulties,  and  difficulties  of  a  kind  hitherto  unknown 
to  Dickens.  In  February,  1865,  as  an  immediate  conse- 
quence, perhaps,  of  exposure  at  a  time  when  depression  of 
spirits  rendered  him  less  able  than  usual  to  bear  it,  he  had 
a  severe  attack  of  illness,  of  which  Forster  says  that  it  "  put 
a  broad  mark  between  his  past  life  and  what  remained  to 
him  of  the  future."  From  this  time  forward  he  felt  a 
lameness  in  his  left  foot,  wdiich  continued  to  trouble  him 
at  intervals  during  the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  which 
finally  communicated  itself  to  the  left  hand.  A  comparison 
of  times,  however,  convinced  Forster  that  the  real  origin 
of  this  ailment  was  to  be  sought  in  general  causes. 

In  1865,  as  the  year  wore  on,  and  the  pressure  of  the 
novel  still  continued,  he  felt  that  he  was  "  working  himself 
into  a  damaged  state,"  and  was  near  to  that  which  has 
greater  terrors  for  natures  like  his  than  for  more  placid 
temperaments — breaking  down.  So,  in  May,  he  went  first 
to  the  sea-side  and  then  to  France.  On  his  return  (it  was 
the  9th  of  June,  the  date  of  his  death  five  years  afterwards) 
he  was  in  the  railway  train  which  met  with  a  fearful  ac- 
cident at  Staplehurst,  in  Kent.  His  carriage  was  the  only 
passenger-carriage  in  the  train  which,  when  the  bridge  gave 
way,  was  not  thrown  over  into  the  stream.  lie  was  able 
to  escape  out  of  the  window,  to  make  his  way  in  again  for 
his  brandy-flask  and  the  MS.  of  a  number  of  Our  Mutual 
Friend  which  he  had  left  behind  him,  to  clamber  down 
the  brickwork  of  the  bridge  for  water,  to  do  what  he  could 
towards  rescuing  his  unfortunate  fellow-travellers,  and  to 
aid  the  wounded  and  the  dying.  "  I  have,"  he  wrote,  in 
describing  the  scene,  "  a — I  don't  know  what  to  call  it : 
constitutional,  I  suppose — presence  of  mind,  and  was  not 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  171 

in  the  least  fluttered  at  the  time.  .  .  .  But  in  writing  these 
scanty  words  of  recollection  I  feel  the  shake,  and  am  obliged 
to  stop."  Nineteen  months  afterwards,  when  on  a  hurried 
reading  tour  in  the  North,  he  complains  to  Miss  Hogarth 
of  the  effect  of  the  railway  shaking  which  since  the  Staple- 
hurst  accident  "tells  more  and  more."  It  is  clear  how 
serious  a  shock  the  accident  had  caused.  He  never,  Miss 
Hogarth  thinks,  quite  recovered  it.  Yet  it  might  have 
acted  less  disastrously  upon  a  system  not  already  nervously 
weakened.  As  evidence  of  the  decline  of  Dickens's  nervous 
power,  I  hardly  know  whether  it  is  safe  to  refer  to  the 
gradual  change  in  his  handwriting,  which  in  his  last  years 
is  a  melancholy  study. 

All  these  circumstances  should  be  taken  into  account  in 
judging  of  Dickens's  last  completed  novel.  The  author 
would  not  have  been  himself  had  he,  when  once  fairly  en- 
gaged upon  his  work,  failed  to  feel  something  of  his  old 
self-confidence.  Nor  was  this  feeling,  which  he  frankly 
confessed  to  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  altogether  unwarranted. 
Our  Mutual  Friend^  is,  like  the  rest  of  Dickens's  later 
writings,  carefully  and  skilfully  put  together  as  a  story. 
No  exception  is  to  be  taken  to  it  on  the  ground  that  the 
identity  on  which  much  of  the  plot  hinges  is  long  fore- 
seen by  the  reader ;  for  this,  as  Dickens  told  his  critics  in 
his  postscript,  had  been  part  of  his  design,  and  was,  in 
fact,  considering  the  general  nature  of  the  story,  almost 
indispensable.  The  defect  rather  lies  in  the  absence  of 
that  element  of  uncertainty  which  is  needed  in  order  to 

*  This  title  has  helped  to  extinguish  the  phrase  of  which  it  con- 
sists. Few  would  now  be  found  to  agree  with  the  last  clause  of  Flo- 
ra's parenthesis  in  Little  Dorrit :  "  Our  mutual  friend — too  cold  a 
word  for  me;  at  least  I  don't  mean  that  very  proper  expression, 
mutual  friend." 


1V2  DICKENS.  [chap. 

sustain  the  interest.  The  story  is,  no  doubt,  ingeniously 
enough  constructed,  but  admiration  of  an  ingenious  con- 
struction is  insufficient  to  occupy  the  mind  of  a  reader 
through  an  inevitable  disentanglement.  Moreover,  some 
of  the  machinery,  though  cleverly  contrived,  cannot  be 
said  to  work  easily.  Thus,  the  ruse  of  the  excellent  Bof- 
fin in  playing  the  part  of  a  skinflint  might  pass  as  a  mo- 
mentary device,  but  its  inherent  improbability,  together 
with  the  likelihood  of  its  leading  to  an  untoward  result, 
makes  its  protraction  undeniably  tedious.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, in  my  opinion  at  least,  in  the  matter  of  construction 
that  Our  Mutual  Friend  presents  a  painful  contrast  with 
earlier  works  produced,  like  it,  "  on  a  large  canvas."  The 
conduct  of  the  story  as  a  whole  is  fully  vigorous  enough 
to  enchain  the  attention ;  and  in  portions  of  it  the  hand 
of  the  master  displays  its  unique  power.  lie  is  at  his  best 
in  the  whole  of  the  water-side  scenes,  both  where  "  The  Six 
Jolly  Fellowship  Porters  "  (identified  by  zealous  discoverers 
with  a  tavern  called  "The  Two  Brewers")  lies  like  an  oasis 
in  the  midst  of  a  desert  of  ill-favoured  tidal  deposits,  and 
where  Rogue  Riderhood  has  his  lair  at  the  lock  higher  up 
the  river.  A  marvellous  union  of  observation  and  imagi- 
nation was  needed  for  the  picturing  of  a  world  in  which 
this  amphibious  monster  has  his  being;  and  never  did 
Dickens's  inexhaustible  knowledge  of  the  physiognomy  of 
the  Thames  and  its  banks  stand  him  in  better  stead  than 
in  these  powerful  episodes.  It  is  unfortunate,  though  in 
accordance  with  the  common  fate  of  heroes  and  heroines, 
that  Lizzie  Hexham  should,  from  the  outset,  have  to  dis- 
card the  colouring  of  her  surroundings,  and  to  talk  the 
conventional  dialect  as  well  as  express  the  conventional 
sentiments  of  the  heroic  world.  Only  at  the  height  of  the 
action  she  ceases  to  be  commonplace,  and  becomes  entitled 


VI.]  LAST  YEAKS.  173 

to  be  remembered  amongst  the  true  heroines  of  fiction. 
A  more  unusual  figure,  of  the  half-pathetic,  half-grotesque 
kind  for  which  Dickens  had  a  peculiar  liking,  is  Lizzie's 
friend,  the  doll's  dressmaker,  into  whom  he  has  certainly- 
infused  an  element  of  genuine  sentiment;  her  protector, 
Riah,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  mere  stage-saint,  though  by  this 
character  Dickens  appears  to  have  actually  hoped  to  re- 
deem the  aspersions  he  was  supposed  to  have  cast  upon 
the  Jews,  as  if  Riah  could  have  redeemed  Fagin,  any 
more  than  Sheva  redeemed  Shylock. 

But  in  this  book  whole  episodes  and  parts  of  the  plot 
through  which  the  mystery  of  John  Harmon  winds  its 
length  along  are  ill-adapted  for  giving  pleasure  to  any 
reader.  The  whole  Bofiin,  Wegg,  and  Venus  business — if 
the  term  may  pass — is  extremely  wearisome ;  the  character 
of  Mr.  Venus,  in  particular,  seems  altogether  nnconnected 
or  unarticulated  with  the  general  plot,  on  which,  indeed, 
it  is  but  an  accidental  excrescence.  In  the  Wilfer  family 
there  are  the  outlines  of  some  figures  of  genuine  humour, 
but  the  outlines  only ;  nor  is  Bella  raised  into  the  sphere 
of  the  charming  out  of  that  of  the  pert  and  skittish.  A 
more  ambitious  attempt,  and  a  more  noteworthy  failure, 
was  the  endeavour  to  give  to  the  main  plot  of  this  novel 
such  a  satiric  foil  as  the  Circumlocution  Office  had  furnish- 
ed to  the  chief  action  of  Little  Dorrit,  in  a  caricature  of 
society  at  large,  its  surface  varnish  and  its  internal  rotten- 
ness. The  Barnacles,  and  those  who  deemed  it  their  duty 
to  rally  round  the  Barnacles,  had,  we  saw,  felt  themselves 
hard  hit;  but  what  sphere  or  section  of  society  could 
feel  itself  specially  caricatured  in  the  Veneerings,  or  in 
their  associates — the  odious  Lady  Tippins,  the  impossibly 
brutal  Podsnap,  Fascination  Fledgeby,  and  the  Lara  rales, 
a  couple  which  suggests  nothing  but  antimony  and  the 


114:  DICKENS.  [chap. 

Chamber  of  Horrors  ?  Caricature  such  as  this,  represent- 
ing no  society  that  has  ever  in  any  part  of  the  world  pre- 
tended to  be  "good,"  corresponds  to  the  wild  rhetoric  of 
the  superfluous  Betty  Higden  episode  against  the  "  gospel 
according  to  Podsnappery  ;"  but  it  is,  in  truth,  satire  from 
which  both  wit  and  humour  have  gone  out.  An  angry, 
often  almost  spasmodic,  mannerism  has  to  supply  their 
place.  Amongst  the  personages  moving  in  "  society  "  are 
two  >vhich,  as  playing  serious  parts  in  the  progress  of  the 
plot,  the  author  is  necessarily  obliged  to  seek  to  endow 
with  the  flesh  and  blood  of  real  human  beings.  Yet  it  is 
precisely  in  these — the  friends  Eugene  and  Mortimer — 
that,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  novel  at  all  events,  the  con- 
straint of  the  author's  style  seems  least  relieved ;  the  dia- 
logues between  these  two  Templars  have  an  unnaturalness 
about  them  as  intolerable  as  euphuism  or  the  effeminacies 
of  the  Augustan  age.  It  is  true  that,  when  the  story 
reaches  its  tragic  height,  the  character  of  Eugene  is  borne 
along  with  it,  and  his  affectations  are  forgotten.  But  in 
previous  parts  of  the  book,  where  he  poses  as  a  wit,  and  is 
evidently  meant  for  a  gentleman,  he  fails  to  make  good 
his  claims  to  either  character.  Even  the  skilfully  contrived 
contrast  between  the  rivals  Eugene  Wrayburn  and  the 
school -master,  Bradley  Headstone  —  through  whom  and 
through  whose  pupil,  Dickens,  by-the-way,  dealt  another 
blow  against  a  system  of  mental  training  founded  upon 
facts  alone — fails  to  bring  out  the  conception  of  Eugene 
which  the  author  manifestly  had  in  his  mind.  Lastly,  the 
old  way  of  reconciling  dissonances — a  marriage  which 
"society"  calls  a  mesalliance  —  has  rarely  furnished  a 
lamer  ending  than  here;  and,  had  the  unwritten  laws 
of  English  popular  fiction  permitted,  a  tragic  close 
would    have    better   accorded    with    the    sombre    hue    of 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  175 

the  most  powerful  portions  of  this  curiously  unequal  ro- 
mance. 

The  effort — for  such  it  was — of  Our  Mutual  Friend 
had  not  been  over  for  more  than  a  few  months,  when 
Dickens  accepted  a  proposal  for  thirty  nights'  readings 
from  the  Messrs.  Chappell ;  and  by  April,  1866,  he  was 
again  hard  at  work,  flying  across  the  country  into  Lanca- 
shire and  Scotland,  and  back  to  his  temporary  London 
residence  in  Southwick  Place,  Hyde  Park.  In  any  man 
more  capable  than  Dickens  of  controlling  the  restlessness 
wdiich  consumed  him  the  acceptance  of  this  offer  would 
have  been  incomprehensible;  for  his  heart  had  been  de- 
clared out  of  order  by  his  physician,  and  the  patient  had 
shown  himself  in  some  degree  awake  to  the  significance 
of  this  opinion.  But  the  readings  were  begun  and  accom- 
plished notwithstanding,  though  not  without  warnings,  on 
which  he  insisted  on  putting  his  own  interpretation. 
Sleeplessness  aggravated  fatigue,  and  stimulants  were  al- 
ready necessary  to  enable  him  to  do  the  work  of  his  readings 
without  discomfort.  Meanwhile,  some  weeks  before  they 
were  finished,  he  had  been  induced  to  enter  into  negotia- 
tions about  a  further  engagement  to  begin  at  the  end  of 
the  year.  Time  was  to  be  left  for  the  Christmas  number, 
which  this  year  could  hardly  find  its  scene  anywhere  else 
than  at  a  railway  junction ;  and  the  readings  were  not  to 
extend  over  forty  nights,  which  seem  ultimately  to  have 
been  increased  to  fifty.  This  second  series,  which  in- 
cluded a  campaign  in  Ireland,  brilliantly  successful  despite 
snow  and  rain,  and  Fenians,  was  over  in  May.  Then  came 
the  climax,  for  America  now  claimed  her  share  of  the 
great  author  for  her  public  halls  and  chapels  and  lecture- 
theatres;  and  the  question  of  the  summer  and  autumn 
was  whether  or  not  to  follow  the  sound  of  the  distant 


1T6  DICKENS.  [chap. 

dollar.  It  was  closely  debated  between  Dickens  and  his 
friend  Forster  and  Wills,  and  he  describes  himself  as 
"  tempest-tossed  "  with  doubts ;  but  his  mind  had  inclined 
in  one  direction  from  the  first,  and  the  matter  was  virtu- 
ally decided  when  it  resolved  to  send  a  confidential  agent 
to  make  enquiries  on  the  spot.  Little  imported  another 
and  grave  attack  in  his  foot ;  the  trusty  Mr.  Dolby's  report 
was  irresistible.  Eighty  readings  within  half  a  year  was 
the  estimated  number,  with  profits  amounting  to  over  fif- 
teen thousand  pounds.  The  gains  actually  made  were 
nearly  five  thousand  pounds  in  excess  of  this  calculation. 

A  farewell  banquet,  under  the  presidency  of  Lord  Lyt- 
ton,  gave  the  favourite  author  Godspeed  on  his  journey 
to  the  larger  half  of  his  public ;  on  the  9th  of  November 
he  sailed  from  Liverpool,  and  on  the  19th  landed  at  Bos- 
ton. The  voyage,  on  which,  with  his  old  buoyancy,  he 
had  contrived  to  make  himself  master  of  the  modest  revels 
of  the  saloon,  seems  to  have  done  him  good,  or  at  least  to 
have  made  him,  as  usual,  impatient  to  be  at  his  task. 
Barely  arrived,  he  is  found  reporting  himself  "  so  well, 
that  I  am  constantly  chafing  at  not  having  begun  to-night, 
instead  of  this  night  week."  By  December,  however,  he 
was  at  his  reading-desk,  first  at  Boston,  where  he  met 
with  the  warmest  of  welcomes,  and  then  at  New  York, 
where  there  was  a  run  upon  the  tickets,  which  he  described 
with  his  usual  e.xcited  delight.  The  enthusiasm  of  his  re- 
ception by  the  American  public  must  have  been  heighten- 
ed by  the  thought  that  it  was  now  or  never  for  them  to 
see  him  face  to  face,  and,  by-goncs  being  by-gones,  to  tes- 
tify to  him  their  admiration.  But  there  may  have  been 
some  foundation  for  his  discovery  that  some  signs  of  agi- 
tation on  his  part  were  expected  in  return,  and  "  that  it 
would  have  been  taken  as  a  suitable  compliment  if  I  would 


Ti.]  LAST  YEARS.  HY 

stagger  on  the  platform,  and  instantly  drop,  overpowered 
by  the  spectacle  before  me."  It  was  but  a  sad  Christmas 
■which  he  spent  with  his  faithful  Dolby  at  their  New  York 
inn,  tired,  and  with  a  "  genuine  American  catarrh  upon 
him,"  of  which  he  never  freed  himself  during  his  stay  in 
the  country.  Hardly  had  he  left  the  doctor's  hands  than 
he  was  about  again,  reading  in  Boston  and  New  York  and 
their  more  immediate  neighbourhood — that  is,  within  six 
or  seven  hours  by  railway — till  February ;  and  then,  in 
order  to  stimulate  his  public,  beginning  a  series  of  appear- 
ances at  more  distant  places  before  returning  to  his  start- 
ing-points. His  whole  tour  included,  besides  a  number  of 
New  England  towns,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Wash- 
ington, and  in  the  north  Cleveland  and  Buffalo.  Canada 
and  the  West  were  struck  out  of  the  programme,  the  lat- 
ter chiefly  because  exciting  political  matters  were  begin- 
ning to  absorb  public  attention. 

During  these  journeyings  Dickens  gave  himself  up  alto- 
gether to  the  business  of  his  readings,  only  occasionally 
allowing  himself  to  accept  the  hospitality  proffered  him. 
on  every  side.  Thus  only  could  he  breast  the  difficulties 
of  his  enterprise ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  his  health  was  never 
good  during  the  whole  of  his  visit,  and  his  exertions  were 
severe,  though  eased  by  the  self-devotion  of  his  attendants, 
of  which,  as  of  his  constant  kindness,  both  serious  and 
sportive,  towards  them  it  is  touching  to  read.  Already  in 
January  he  describes  himself  as  not  seldom  *'  so  dead  beat" 
at  the  close  of  a  reading  "  that  they  lay  me  down  on  a 
sofa,  after  I  have  been  washed  and  dressed,  and  I  lie  there, 
extremely  faint,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  and  as  suffering 
from  intolerable  sleeplessness  at  night.  His  appetite  was 
equally  disordered,  and  he  lived  mainly  on  stimulants. 
Why  had  he  condemned  himself  to  such  a  life  ? 


m  DICKENS.  [chap. 

When  at  last  he  could  declare  the  stress  of  his  work 
over  he  described  himself  as  "  nearly  used  up.  Climate, 
distance,  catarrh,  travelling,  and  hard  work  have  begun — 
I  may  say  so,  now  they  are  nearly  all  over — to  tell  heavily 
upon  me.  Sleeplessness  besets  me ;  and  if  I  had  engaged 
to  go  on  into  May,  I  think  I  must  have  broken  down." 
Indeed,  but  for  his  wonderful  energy  and  the  feeling  of 
exultation  which  is  derived  from  a  heavy  task  nearly  ac- 
complished, he  would  have  had  to  follow  the  advice  of 
"Longfellow  and  all  the  Cambridge  men,"  and  give  in 
nearly  at  the  last.  But  he  persevered  through  the  fare- 
well readings,  both  at  Boston  and  at  New  York,  though 
on  the  night  before  the  last  reading  in  America  he  told 
Dolby  that  if  he  "  had  to  read  but  twice  more,  instead  of 
once,  he  couldn't  do  it."  This  last  reading  of  all  was 
given  at  New  York  on  April  20,  two  days  after  a  farewell 
banquet  at  Delmonico's.  It  was  when  speaking  on  this 
occasion  that,  very  naturally  moved  by  the  unalloyed  wel- 
come which  had  greeted  him  in  whatever  part  of  the 
States  he  had  visited,  he  made  the  declaration  already 
mentioned,  promising  to  perpetuate  his  grateful  sense  of 
his  recent  .American  experiences.  This  apology,  which 
was  no  apology,  at  least  remains  one  amongst  many 
proofs  of  the  fact  that  with  Dickens  kindness  never  fell 
on  a  thankless  soil. 

The  merry  month  of  May  was  still  young  in  the  Kent- 
ish fields  and  lanes  when  the  master  of  Gad's  Hill  Place 
was  home  again  at  last.  "I  had  not  been  at  sea  three 
days  on  the  passage  home,"  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Mrs. 
Watson,  "  when  I  became  myself  again."  It  was,  how- 
ever, too  much  when  "  a  '  deputation ' — two  in  number,  of 
whom  only  one  could  get  into  my  cabin,  while  the  oth- 
er looked  in  at  ray  window — came  to  ask  me  to  read  to 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  179 

the  passengers  that  evening  in  the  saloon.  I  respectfully 
replied  that  sooner  than  do  it  I  would  assault  the  captain 
and  be  put  in  irons."  Alas !  he  was  already  fast  bound, 
by  an  engagement  concluded  soon  after  he  had  arrived  in 
Boston,  to  a  final  series  of  readings  at  home.  "  Farewell" 
is  a  difficult  word  to  say  for  any  one  who  has  grown  ac- 
customed to  the  stimulating  excitement  of  a  public  stage, 
and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Dichens  should  have  wished 
to  see  the  faces  of  his  familiar  friends — the  English  pub- 
lic— once  more.  Bat  the  engagement  to  which  he  had 
set  his  hand  was  for  a  farewell  of  a  hundred  readings,  at 
the  recompense  of  eight  thousand  pounds,  in  addition  to 
expenses  and  percentage.  It  is  true  that  he  had  done  this 
before  he  had  fully  realized  the  effect  of  his  American 
exertions ;  but  even  so  there  was  a  terrible  unwisdom  in 
the  promise.  These  last  readings — and  he  alone  is,  in 
common  fairness,  to  be  held  responsible  for  the  fact — cut 
short  a  life  from  which  much  noble  fruit  might  still  have 
been  expected  for  our  literature,  and  which  in  any  case 
might  have  been  prolonged  as  a  bles.sing  beyond  all  that 
gold  can  buy  to  those  who  loved  him. 

Meanwhile  he  had  allowed  himself  a  short  respite  be- 
fore resuming  his  labours  in  October.  It  was  not  more, 
his  friends  thought,  than  he  needed,  for  much  of  his  old 
buoyancy  seemed  to  them  to  be  wanting  in  him,  except 
when  hospitality  or  the  intercourse  of  friendship  called  it 
forth.  What  a  charm  there  still  was  in  his  genial  humour 
his  letters  would  suffice  to  show.  It  does  one  good  to 
read  his  description  to  his  kind  American  friends  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fields  of  his  tranquillity  at  Gad's  Hill :  "  Divers  birds 
sing  here  all  day,  and  the  nightingales  all  night.  The 
place  is  lovely,  and  in  perfect  order.  I  have  put  five  mir- 
rors in  the  Swiss  chalet  where  I  write,  and  they  reflect  and 


180  DICKENS.  [chap. 

refract  in  all  kinds  of  ways  the  leaves  that  are  quivering 
at  the  windows,  and  the  great  fields  of  waving  corn,  and  the 
sail-dotted  river.  My  room  is  up  amongst  the  branches 
of  the  trees,  and  the  birds  and  the  butterflies  fly  in  and 
out,  and  the  green  branches  shoot  in  at  the  open  windows, 
and  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  clouds  come  and  go 
with  the  rest  of  the  company.  The  scent  of  the  flowers, 
and  indeed  of  everything  that  is  growing  for  miles  and 
miles,  is  most  delicious." 

Part  of  this  rare  leisure  he  generously  devoted  to  the 
preparation  for  the  press  of  a  volume  of  literary  remains 
from  the  pen  of  an  old  friend.  The  Religions  Opinions 
of  Chauncey  Hare  Townshend  should  not  be  altogether 
overlooked  by  those  interested  in  Dickens,  to  whom  the 
loose  undogmatic  theology  of  his  friend  commended  itself 
as  readily  as  the  sincere  religious  feeling  underlying  it.  I 
cannot  say  what  answer  Dickens  would  have  returned  to 
an  enquiry  as  to  his  creed,  but  the  nature  of  his  religious 
opinions  is  obvious  enough.  Born  in  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, he  had  so  strong  an  aversion  from  what  seemed  to 
him  dogmatism  of  any  kind,  that  he  for  a  time — in  1843 
— connected  himself  with  a  Unitarian  congregation  ;  and 
to  Unitarian  views  his  own  probably  continued  during 
his  life  most  nearly  to  approach.  lie  described  himself 
as  "morally  wide  asunder  from  Rome,"  but  the  religious 
conceptions  of  her  community  cannot  have  been  a  matter 
of  anxious  enquiry  with  him,  while  he  was  too  liberal- 
minded  to  be,  unless  occasionally,  aggressive  in  his  Protes- 
tantism. For  the  rest,  his  mind,  though  imaginative,  was 
without  mystical  tendencies,  while  for  the  transitory  super- 
stitions of  the  day  it  was  impossible  but  that  he  should 
entertain  the  contempt  which  they  deserved.  "  Although," 
he  writes — 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS,  181 

"  I  regard  with  a  hushed  and  solemn  fear  the  mysteries  between 
which,  and  this  state  of  existence,  is  interposed  the  barrier  of  the 
great  trial  and  change  that  fall  on  all  the  things  that  live ;  and,  al- 
though I  have  not  the  audacity  to  pretend  that  I  know  anything  of 
them,  I  cannot  reconcile  the  mere  banging  of  doors,  ringing  of  bells, 
creaking  of  boai-ds,  and  such  like  insignificances,  with  the  majestic 
beauty  and  pervading  analogy  of  all  the  Divine  rules  that  I  am  per- 
mitted to  understand." 


His  piety  was  undemonstrative  and  sincere,  as  his  books 
alone  would  suffice  to  prove ;  and  he  seems  to  have  sought 
to  impress  upon  his  children  those  religious  truths  with 
the  acceptance  and  practice  of  which  he  remained  himself 
content.  He  loved  the  New  Testament,  and  had,  after 
some  fashion  of  his  own,  paraphrased  the  Gospel  narrative 
for  the  use  of  his  children ;  but  he  thought  that  "  half 
the  misery  and  hypocrisy  of  the  Christian  world  arises 
from  a  stubborn  determination  to  refuse  the  New  Testa- 
ment as  a  sufficient  guide  in  itself,  and  to  force  the  Old 
Testament  into  alliance  with  it — whereof  comes  all  man- 
ner of  camel-swallowing  and  of  gnat-straining."  Of  Pu- 
ritanism in  its  modern  forms  he  was  an  uncompromising, 
and  no  doubt  a  conscientious,  opponent ;  and  though,  with 
perfect  sincerity,  he  repelled  the  charge  that  liis  attacks 
upon  cant  were  attacks  upon  religion,  yet  their  animus  is 
such  as  to  make  the  misinterpretation  intelligible.  His 
Dissenting  ministers  are  of  the  Bartholomew  Fair  species ; 
and  though,  in  his  later  books,  a  good  clergyman  here  and 
there  makes  his  modest  appearance,  the  balance  can  hard- 
ly be  said  to  be  satisfactorily  redressed. 

The  performance  of  this  pious  office  was  not  the  only 
kind  act  he  did  after  his  return  from  America.  Of  course, 
however,  his  own  family  was  nearest  to  his  heart.  No 
kinder  or  more  judicious  words  were  ever  addressed  by  a 


182  DICKENS.  [chap. 

father  to  his  children  than  those  which,  about  this  time, 
he  wrote  to  one  of  his  sons,  then  beginning  a  successful 
career  at  Cambridge,  and  to  another — the  youngest — who 
was  setting  forth  for  Australia,  to  join  an  elder  brother 
already  established  in  that  country.  "Poor  Plorn,"  he 
afterward  wrote,  "is  gone  to  Australia.  It  was  a  hard 
parting  at  the  last.  He  seemed  to  me  to  become  once 
more  my  youngest  and  favourite  child  as  the  day  drew 
near,  and  I  did  not  think  I  could  have  been  so  shaken." 

In  October  his  "farewell"  readings  began.  He  had 
never  had  his  heart  more  in  the  work  than  now.  Curious- 
ly enough,  not  less  than  two  proposals  had  reached  him 
during  this  autumn — one  from  Birmingham  and  the  other 
from  Edinburgh — that  he  should  allow  himself  to  be  put 
forward  as  a  candidate  for  Parliament ;  but  he  declined  to 
entertain  either,  though  in  at  least  one  of  the  two  cases 
the  prospects  of  success  would  not  have  been  small.  His 
views  of  political  and  parliamentary  life  had  not  changed 
since  he  had  written  to  Bulwer  Lytton  in  18G5:  "Would 
there  not  seem  to  be  something  horribly  rotten  in  the  sys- 
tem of  political  life,  when  one  stands  amazed  how  any 
man,  not  forced  into  it  by  his  position,  as  you  arc,  can 
bear  to  live  it?"  Indeed,  they  had  hardly  changed  since 
the  days  when  he  had  come  into  personal  contact  with 
them  as  a  reporter.  In  public  and  in  private  he  had  never 
ceased  to  ridicule  our  English  system  of  party,  and  to  ex- 
press his  contempt  for  the  Legislature  and  all  its  works. 
He  had,  however,  continued  to  take  a  lively  interest  in 
public  affairs,  and  his  letters  contain  not  a  few  shrewd 
remarks  on  both  home  and  foreign  questions.  Like  most 
liberal  minds  of  his  age,  he  felt  a  warm  sympathy  for  the 
cause  of  Italy;  and  the  English  statesman  whom  he  ap- 
pears to  have  most  warmly  admired  was  Lord  Russell,  in 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  183 

whose  good  intentions  neitber  friends  nor  adversaries  were 
wont  to  lose  faith.  Meanwhile  his  Radicalism  gradually 
became  of  the  most  thoroughly  independent  type,  though 
it  interfered  neither  with  his  approval  of  the  proceedings 
in  Jamaica  as  an  example  of  strong  government,  nor  with 
his  scorn  of  "the  meeting  of  jawbones  and  asses"  held 
against  Governor  Eyre  at  Manchester.  The  political  ques- 
tions, however,  which  really  moved  him  deeply  were  those 
social  problems  to  which  his  sympathy  for  the  poor  had 
always  directed  his  attention — the  Poor-law,  temperance, 
Sunday  observance,  punishment  and  prisons,  labour  and 
strikes.  On  all  these  heads  sentiment  guided  his  judg- 
ment, but  he  spared  no  pains  to  convince  himself  that  he 
was  in  the  right ;  and  he  was  always  generous,  as  when, 
notwithstanding  his  interest  in  Household  Words,  he  de- 
clared himself  unable  to  advocate  the  repeal  of  the  paper 
duty  for  a  moment,  "as  against  the  soap  duty,  or  any 
other  pressing  on  the  mass  of  the  poor." 

Thus  he  found  no  difficulty  in  adhering  to  the  course 
he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  The  subject  which  now 
occupied  him  before  all  others  was  a  scheme  for  a  new 
reading,  with  which  it  was  his  wish  to  vary  and  to  intensify 
the  success  of  the  series  on  which  he  was  engaged.  This 
was  no  other  than  a  selection  of  scenes  from  Oliver  Tivist, 
culminating  in  the  scene  of  the  murder  of  Nancy  by  Sikes, 
which,  before  producing  it  in  public,  he  resolved  to  "  try  " 
upon  a  select  private  audience.  The  trial  was  a  brilliant 
success.  "The  public,"  exclaimed  a  famous  actress  who 
was  present,  "  have  been  looking  out  for  a  sensation  these 
last  fifty  years  or  so,  and,  by  Heaven,  they  have  got  it !" 
Accordingly,  from  January,  1869,  it  formed  one  of  the 
most  frequent  of  his  readings,  and  the  effort  which  it 
involved  counted  for  much  in  the  collapse  which  was  to 


184  DICKENS.  [chap. 

follow.  Never  were  the  limits  between  reading  and  acting 
more  thoroughly  effaced  by  Dickens,  and  never  was  the 
production  of  an  extraordinary  effect  more  equally  shared 
by  author  and  actor.  But  few  who  witnessed  this  ex- 
traordinary performance  can  have  guessed  the  elaborate 
preparation  bestowed  upon  it,  which  is  evident  from  the 
following  notes  (by  Mr.  C.  Kent)  on  the  book  used  in  it 
by  the  reader : 

"  What  is  as  striking  as  anything  in  all  this  reading,  however — 
that  is,  in  the  reading  copy  of  it  now  lying  before  us  as  we  write 
— is  the  mass  of  hints  as  to  the  by-play  in  the  stage  directions  for 
himself,  so  to  speak,  scattered  up  and  down  the  margin,  Tagin 
raised  his  right  hand,  and  shook  his  trembling  forefinger  in  the  air,' 
is  there  on  page  101  in  print.  Beside  it,  on  the  margin  in  MS.,  is 
the  word  '■Action.''  Not  a  word  of  it  was  said.  It  was  simply  done. 
Again,  immediately  below  that,  on  the  same  page — Sikes  loquitur : 
'  Oh  !  you  haven't,  haven't  you  ?'  passing  a  pistol  into  a  more  conven- 
ient pocket  {'■Action''  again  in  MS.  on  the  margin.)  Not  a  word  was 
said  about  the  pistol.  ...  So  again,  afterwards,  as  a  rousing  self-direc- 
tion, one  sees  notified  in  MS.  on  page  107  the  grim  stage  direction, 
*  Murder  coming .' ' " 

The  "  Murder  "  was  frequently  read  by  Dickens  not  less 
than  four  times  a  week  during  the  early  months  of  1869, 
in  which  year,  after  beginning  in  Ireland,  he  had  been 
continually  travelling  to  and  fro  between  various  parts  of 
Great  Britain  and  town.  Already  in  February  the  old 
trouble  in  his  foot  had  made  itself  felt,  but,  as  usual,  it 
had  long  been  disregarded.  On  the  1 0th  of  April  he  had 
been  entertained  at  Liverpool,  in  St.  George's  Hall,  at  a 
banquet  presided  over  by  Lord  Dufferin,  and  in  a  genial 
speech  had  tossed  back  the  ball  to  Lord  Houghton,  who 
had  pleasantly  bantered  him  for  his  unconsciousness  of 
the  merits  of  the  House  of  Lords.     Ten  days  afterwards 


vi.]  LAST  YEARS.  185 

he  was  to  read  at  Preston,  but,  feeling  uneasy  about  him- 
self, had  reported  his  symptoms  to  his  doctor  in  London. 
The  latter  hastened  down  to  Preston,  and  persuaded  Dick- 
ens to  accompany  him  back  to  town,  where,  after  a  con- 
sultation, it  was  determined  that  the  readings  must  be 
stopped  for  the  current  year,  and  that  reading  combined 
with  travelling  must  never  be  resumed.  What  his  sister- 
in-law  and  daughter  feel  themselves  justified  in  calling 
"the  beginning  of  the  end"  had  come  at  last. 

With  his  usual  presence  of  mind  Dickens  at  once  per- 
ceived the  imperative  necessity  of  interposing,  "as  it  were, 
a  fly-leaf  in  the  book  of  my  life,  in  which  nothing  should 
be  written  from  without  for  a  brief  season  of  a  few  weeks." 
But  he  insisted  that  the  combination  of  the  reading  and 
the  travelling  was  alone  to  be  held  accountable  for  his 
having  found  himself  feeling,  "for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  giddy,  jarred,  shaken,  faint,  uncertain  of  voice  and 
sight  and  tread  and  touch,  and  dull  of  spirit."  Mean- 
while, he  for  once  kept  quiet,  first  in  London,  and  then  at 
Gad's  Hill.  "This  last  summer,"  say  those  who  did  most 
to  make  it  bright  for  him,  "  was  a  very  happy  one,"  and 
gladdened  by  the  visits  of  many  friends.  On  the  retire- 
ment, also  on  account  of  ill-health,  from  All  the  Year 
Hound  of  his  second  self,  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  he  was  fortu- 
nately able  at  once  to  supply  the  vacant  place  by  the  ap- 
pointment to  it  of  his  eldest  son,  who  seems  to  have  in- 
herited that  sense  of  lucid  order  which  was  amongst  his 
father's  most  distinctive  characteristics.  He  travelled  very 
little  this  year,  though  in  September  he  made  a  speech  at 
Birmingham  on  behalf  of  his  favourite  Midland  Institute, 
delivering  himself,  at  its  conclusion,  of  an  antithetical  Kad- 
ical  commonplace,  which,  being  misreported  or  misunder- 
stood, was  commented  upon  with  much  unnecessary  won- 
9 


186  DICKENS.  [chap. 

derment.  With  a  view  to  avoiding  the  danger  of  exces- 
sive fatigue,  the  latter  part  of  the  year  was  chiefly  devoted 
to  writing  in  advance  part  of  his  new  book,  which,  like 
Oreat  Expectations,  was  to  grow  up,  and  to  be  better  for 
growing  up,  in  his  own  Kentish  home,  and  almost  within 
sound  of  the  bells  of  "  Cloisterham"  Cathedral.  But  the 
new  book  was  never  to  be  finished. 

The  first  number  of  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  was 
not  published  till  one  more  short  series  of  twelve  readings, 
given  in  London  during  a  period  extending  from  January 
to  March,  was  at  an  end.  lie  had  obtained  Sir  Thomas 
Watson's  consent  to  his  carrying  out  this  wish,  largely 
caused  by  the  desire  to  compensate  the  Messrs.  Chappell 
in  some  measure  for  the  disappointment  to  which  he  had 
been  obliged  to  subject  them  by  the  interruption  of  his 
longer  engagement.  Thus,  though  the  Christmas  of  1869 
had  brought  with  it  another  warning  of  trouble  in  the 
foot,  the  year  1870  opened  busily,  and  early  in  January 
Dickens  established  himself  for  the  season  at  5  Hyde  Park 
Place.  Early  in  the  month  he  made  another  speech  at 
Birmingham ;  but  the  readings  were  strictly  confined  to 
London.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  the  "  Murder  "  would  be  excluded  from  the  list.  It 
was  read  in  January  to  an  audience  of  actors  and  actress- 
es ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that  he  was  able  to  testify 
to  his  kindly  feeling  towards  their  profession  on  one  of 
the  last  occasions  when  he  appeared  on  his  own  stage. 
"  I  set  myself,"  he  wrote,  "  to  carrying  out  of  themselves 
and  their  observation  those  who  were  bent  on  watching 
how  the  effects  were  got ;  and,  I  believe,  I  succeeded. 
Coming  back  to  it  again,  however.  If  eel  it  was  madness 
ever  to  do  it  so  continuously.  My  ordinary  pulse  is  sev- 
enty-two, and  it  runs  up  under  this  effort  to  one  hundred 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  187 

and  twelve."  Yet  tliis  fatal  reading  was  repeated  thrice 
more  before  the  series  closed,  and  Avith  even  more  star- 
tling results  upon  the  reader.  The  careful  observations 
made  by  tlie  physician,  however,  show  that  the  excitement 
of  his  last  readings  was  altogether  too  great  for  any  man 
to  have  endured  much  longer.  At  last,  on  March  16,  the 
night  came  which  closed  fifteen  years  of  personal  relations 
between  the  English  public  and  its  favourite  author,  such 
as  are,  after  all,  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  our  literature. 
His  farewell  words  were  few  and  simple,  and  referred  with 
dignity  to  his  resolution  to  devote  himself  henceforth  ex- 
clusively to  his  calling  as  an  author,  and  to  his  hope  that 
in  but  two  short  weeks'  time  his  audience  "  might  enter, 
in  their  own  homes,  on  a  new  series  of  readings  at  which 
his  assistance  would  be  indispensable." 

Of  the  short  time  which  remained  to  him  his  last  book 
was  the  chief  occupation ;  and  an  association  thus  clings 
to  the  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  which  would,  in  any  case, 
incline  us  to  treat  this  fragment  —  for  it  was  to  be  no 
more — with  tenderness.  One  would,  indeed,  hardly  be 
justified  in  asserting  that  this  story,  like  that  which  Thack- 
eray left  behind  him  in  the  same  unfinished  state,  bade 
fair  to  become  a  masterpiece  in  its  authors  later  manner ; 
there  is  much  that  is  forced  in  its  humour,  while  as  to  the 
working  out  of  the  chief  characters  our  means  of  judg- 
ment are,  of  course,  incomplete.  The  outline  of  the  design, 
on  the  other  hand,  presents  itself  with  tolerable  clearness 
to  the  minds  of  most  readers  of  insight  or  experience, 
though  the  story  deserves  its  name  of  a  mystery,  instead 
of,  like  Our  Mutual  Friend,  seeming  merely  to  withhold 
a  necessary  explanation.  And  it  must  be  allowed  few 
plots  have  ever  been  more  effectively  laid  than  this,  of 
which  the  untying  will  never  be  known.     Three  such  per- 


188  DICKENS.  [chap. 

sonages  in  relation  to  a  deed  of  darkness  as  Jasper  for  its 
contriver,  Durden  for  its  unconscious  accomplice,  and  Dep- 
uty for  its  self-invited  -witness,  and  all  so  naturally  connect- 
ing themselves  with  the  locality  of  the  perpetration  of  the 
crime,  assuredly  could  not  have  been  brought  together  ex- 
cept by  one  who  had  gradually  attained  to  mastership  in 
the  adaptation  of  characters  to  the  purposes  of  a  plot. 
Still,  the  strongest  impression  left  upon  the  reader  of  this 
fragment  is  the  evidence  it  furnishes  of  Dickens  having 
retained  to  the  last  powers  which  were  most  peculiarly 
and  distinctively  his  own.  Having  skilfully  brought  into 
connexion,  for  the  purposes  of  his  plot,  two  such  strange- 
ly-contrasted spheres  of  life  and  death  as  the  cathedral 
close  at  "  Cloisterhara "  and  an  opium-smoking  den  in 
one  of  the  obscurest  corners  of  London,  he  is  enabled,  by 
his  imaginative  and  observing  powers,  not  only  to  realise 
the  picturesque  elements  in  both  scenes,  but  also  to  con- 
vert them  into  a  twofold  background,  accommodating  it- 
self to  the  most  vivid  hues  of  human  passion.  This  is  to 
bring  out  what  he  was  wont  to  call  "  the  romantic  aspect 
of  familiar  things."  With  the  physiognomy  of  Cloister- 
ham —  otherwise  Rochester  —  with  its  cathedral,  and  its 
"  monastery "  ruin,  and  its  "  Minor  Canon  Corner,"  and 
its  "  Nuns'  House  " — otherwise  "  Eastgatc  House,"  in  the 
High  Street — he  was,  of  course,  closely  acquainted ;  but 
he  had  never  reproduced  its  features  with  so  artistic  a  cun- 
ning, and  the  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  will  always  haunt 
Bishop  Gundulph's  venerable  building  and  its  tranquil  pre- 
cincts. As  for  the  opium-smoking,  we  have  his  own  state- 
ment that  what  he  described  he  saw — "  exactly  as  he  had 
described  it,  penny  ink-bottle  and  all — down  in  Shadwell " 
in  the  autumn  of  1869.  "A  couple  of  the  Inspectors  of 
Lodging-houses  knew  the  woman,  and  took  me  to  her  as 


VI.]  LAST  YEARS.  189 

I  was  making  a  round  with  them  to  see  for  myself  the 
working  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  Bill."  Between  these 
scenes  John  Jasper  —  a  figure  conceived  with  singular 
force — moves  to  and  fro,  preparing  his  mysterious  design. 
No  story  of  the  kind  ever  began  more  finely ;  and  we  may 
be  excused  from  enquiring  whether  signs  of  diminished 
vigour  of  invention  and  freshness  of  execution  are  to  be 
found  in  other  and  less  prominent  portions  of  the  great 
novelist's  last  work. 

Before,  in  this  year  1870,  Dickens  withdrew  from  Lon- 
don to  Gad's  Hill,  with  the  hope  of  there  in  quiet  carry- 
ing his  all  but  half-finished  task  to  its  close,  his  health  had 
not  been  satisfactory ;  he  had  suffered  from  time  to  time 
in  his  foot,  and  his  weary  and  aged  look  was  observed  by 
many  of  his  friends.  He  was  able  to  go  occasionally  into 
society ;  though  at  the  last  dinner-party  which  he  attend- 
ed— it  was  at  Lord  Houghton's,  to  meet  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  the  King  of  the  Belgians — he  had  been  unable 
to  mount  above  the  dining-room  floor.  Already  in  March 
the  Queen  had  found  a  suitable  opportunity  for  inviting 
him  to  wait  upon  her  at  Buckingham  Palace,  when  she 
had  much  gratified  him  by  her  kindly  manner ;  and  a  few 
days  later  he  made  his  appearance  at  the  levee.  These  ac- 
knowledgments of  his  position  as  an  English  author  were 
as  they  should  be ;  no  others  were  offered,  nor  is  it  a  mat- 
ter of  regret  that  there  should  have  been  no  titles  to  in- 
scribe on  his  tomb.  He  was  also  twice  seen  on  one  of 
those  public  occasions  which  no  eloquence  graced  so  read- 
ily and  so  pleasantly  as  his :  once  in  April,  at  the  dinner 
for  the  Newsvenders'  Charity,  when  he  spoke  of  the  ex- 
istence among  his  humble  clients  of  that  "feeling  of  broth- 
erhood and  sympathy  which  is  worth  much  to  all  men,  or 
they  would  herd  with  wolves ;"  and  once  in  May — only  a 


190  DICKENS.  [chap. 

day  or  two  before  he  went  home  into  the  country — when, 
at  the  Royal  Academy  dinner,  he  paid  a  touching  tribute 
to  the  eminent  painter,  Daniel  Maclise,  who  in  the  good 
old  days  had  been  much  like  a  brother  to  himself.  An- 
other friend  and  companion,  Mark  Lemon,  passed  away  a 
day  or  two  afterwards ;  and  with  the  most  intimate  of  all, 
his  future  biographer,  he  lamented  the  familiar  faces  of 
their  companions — not  one  of  whom  had  passed  his  six- 
tieth year — upon  which  they  were  not  to  look  again.  On 
the  30th  of  May  he  was  once  more  at  Gad's  Hill. 

Here  he  forthwith  set  to  work  on  his  book,  taking 
walks  as  usual,  though  of  no  very  great  length.  On  Thurs- 
day, the  9th  of  June,  he  had  intended  to  pay  his  usual 
weekly  visit  to  the  office  of  his  journal,  and  accordingly, 
on  the  8th,  devoted  the  afternoon  as  well  as  the  morning 
to  finishing  the  sixth  number  of  the  story.  AVhen  he 
came  across  to  the  house  from  the  chalet  before  dinner  he 
seemed  to  his  sister-in-law,  who  alone  of  the  family  was  at 
home,  tired  and  silent,  and  no  sooner  had  they  sat  down 
to  dinner  than  she  noticed  how  seriously  ill  he  looked.  It 
speedily  became  evident  that  a  fit  was  upon  him.  "  Come 
and  lie  down,"  she  entreated.  "  Yes,  on  the  ground,"  he 
said,  very  distinctly — these  were  the  last  words  he  spoke — 
and  he  slid  from  her  arm  and  fell  upon  the  floor,  lie 
was  laid  on  a  couch  in  the  room,  and  there  he  remained 
unconscious  almost  to  the  last.  He  died  at  ten  minutes 
past  six  on  the  evening  of  the  9th — by  w^hich  time  his 
daughters  and  his  eldest  son  had  been  able  to  join  the 
faithful  watcher  by  his  side ;  his  sister  and  his  son  Henry 
arrived  when  all  was  over. 

His  own  desire  had  been  to  be  buried  near  Gad's  Hill ; 
though  at  one  time  he  is  said  to  have  expressed  a  wish  to 
lie  in  a  disused  graveyard,  which  is  still  pointed  out,  in  a 


Ti.]  LAST  YEARS.  191 

secluded  corner  in  the  moat  of  Rochester  Castle.  Prepa- 
rations had  been  made  accordingly,  when  the  Dean  and 
Chapter  of  Rochester  urged  a  request  that  his  remains 
might  be  placed  in  their  Cathedral.  This  was  assented  to; 
but  at  the  last  moment  the  Dean  of  Westminster  gave  ex- 
pression to  a  widespread  wish  that  the  great  national 
writer  might  lie  in  the  national  Abbey.  There  he  was 
buried  on  June  14,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at  the 
pomp  which  he  had  deprecated  in  his  will,  and  which  he 
almost  fiercely  condemned  in  more  than  one  of  his  writ- 
ings. "The  funeral,"  writes  Dean  Stanley,  whose  own 
dust  now  mingles  with  that  of  so  many  illustrious  dead, 
*'  was  strictly  private.  It  took  place  at  an  early  hour  in 
the  summer  morning,  the  grave  having  been  dug  in  secret 
the  night  before,  and  the  vast  solitary  space  of  the  Abbey 
was  occupied  only  by  the  small  band  of  the  mourners,  and 
the  Abbey  clergy,  who,  without  any  music  except  the  occa- 
sional peal  of  the  organ,  read  the  funeral  service.  For  days 
the  spot  was  visited  by  thousands.  Many  were  the  tears 
shed  by  the  poorer  visitors.  He  rests  beside  Sheridan, 
Garrick,  and  Henderson  " — the  first  actor  ever  buried  in 
the  Abbey.  Associations  of  another  kind  cluster  near ;  but 
his  generous  spirit  would  not  have  disdained  the  thought 
that  he  would  seem  even  in  death  the  players'  friend. 

A  plain  memorial  brass  on  the  walls  of  Rochester 
Cathedral  vindicates  the  share  which  the  ancient  city  and 
its  neighbourhood  will  always  have  in  his  fame.  But 
most  touching  of  all  it  is  to  think  of  him  under  the  trees 
of  his  own  garden  on  the  hill,  in  the  pleasant  home  where, 
after  so  many  labours  and  so  many  wanderings,  he  died  in 
peace,  and  as  one  who  had  earned  hisrc 


UinVEESITY 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    FUTURE    OF    DICKENS's    FAME. 

There  is  no  reason  whatever  to  believe  that  in  the  few 
years  which  have  gone  by  since  Dickens's  death  the  de- 
light taken  in  his  works  throughout  England  and  North 
America,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  has  diminished,  or  that  he  is 
not  still  one  of  our  few  most  popular  writers.  The  mere 
fact  that  his  popularity  has  remained  such  since,  nearly 
half  a  century  ago,  he,  like  a  beam  of  spring  sunshine,  first 
made  the  world  gay,  is  a  sufficient  indication  of  the  influ- 
ence which  he  must  have  exercised  upon  his  age.  In  our 
world  of  letters  his  followers  have  been  many,  though  nat- 
urally enough  those  whose  original  genius  impelled  them  to 
follow  their  own  course  soonest  ceased  to  be  his  imitators. 
Amongst  these  I  know  no  more  signal  instance  than  the 
great  novelist  whose  surpassing  merits  he  had  very  swiftly 
recognised  in  her  earliest  work.  For  though  in  the  Scenes 
of  Clerical  Life  George  Eliot  seems  to  be,  as  it  were,  hesi- 
tating between  Dickens  and  Thackeray  as  the  models  of 
her  humorous  writing,  reminiscences  of  the  former  are 
unmistakable  in  the  opening  of  Amos  Barton,  in  Mr.  Gil- 
fiVs  Love- Story,  in  JaneCs  Repentance;  and  though  it 
would  be  hazardous  to  trace  his  influence  in  the  domestic 
scenes  in  Adam  Bede,  neither  a  Christmas  exordium  in 
one  of  the  books  of  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  nor  the  Sam 


CHAP,  til]       the  future  of  DICKENS'S  FAME.  193 

Weller-like  freshness  of  Bob  Wakem  in  the  same  power- 
ful story,  is  altogether  the  author's  own.  Two  of  the 
most  successful  Continental  novelists  of  the  present  day 
have  gone  to  school  with  Dickens :  the  one  the  truly  na- 
tional writer  whose  Debit  and  Credit,  a  work  largely  in 
the  manner  of  his  English  model,  has,  as  a  picture  of 
modern  life,  remained  unexcelled  in  German  literature ;' 
the  other,  the  brilliant  Southerner,  who  may  write  as 
much  of  the  History  of  his  Books  as  his  public  may  de- 
sire to  learn,  but  who  cannot  write  the  pathos  of  Dickens 
altogether  out  of  Jack,  or  his  farcical  fun  out  of  Le  Nahah. 
And  again — for  I  am  merely  illustrating,  not  attempting 
to  describe,  the  literary  influence  of  Dickens — who  could 
fail  to  trace  in  the  Californian  studies  and  sketches  of 
Bret  Harte  elements  of  humour  and  of  pathos,  to  which 
that  genuinely  original  author  would  be  the  last  to  deny 
that  his  ffreat  Eno-lish  "master"  was  no  strans^er? 

Yet  popularity  and  literary  influence,  however  wide  and 
however  strong,  often  pass  away  as  they  have  come ;  and 
in  no  field  of  literature  arc  there  many  reputations  which 
the  sea  of  time  fails  before  very  long  to  submerge.  In 
prose  fiction — a  comparatively  young  literary  growth — 
they  are  certainly  not  the  most  numerous,  perhaps  be- 
cause on  works  of  this  species  the  manners  and  style  of  an 
age  most  readily  impress  themselves,  rendering  them  pro- 
portionately strange  to  the  ages  that  come  after.  In  the 
works  of  even  the  lesser  playwrights  who  pleased  the  lib- 
eral times  of  Elizabeth,  and  in  lyrics  of  even  secondary 
merit  that  were  admired  by  fantastic  Caroline  cavaliers, 

^  In  the  last  volume  of  his  magnum  opus  of  historical  fiction 
Gustav  Freytag  describes  "Boz"  as,  about  the  year  1846,  filling  with 
boundless  enthusiasm  the  hearts  of  young  men  and  maidens  in  a 
small  Silesian  country  town. 
9* 


194  DICKENS.  [chap. 

we  can  still  take  pleasure.  But  who  can  read  many  of 
the  "standard"  novels  published  as  lately  even  as  the 
days  of  George  the  Fourth  ?  The  speculation  is,  there- 
fore, not  altogether  idle,  whether  Dickens  saw  truly  when 
labouring,  as  most  great  men  do  labour,  in  the  belief  that 
his  work  was  not  only  for  a  day.  Literary  eminence  was 
the  only  eminence  he  desired,  while  it  was  one  of  the  very 
healthiest  elements  in  his  character,  that  whatever  he  was, 
he  was  thoroughly.  He  would  not  have  told  any  one,  as 
Fielding's  author  told  Mr.  Booth  at  the  sponging-housc, 
that  romance-writing  "is  certainly  the  easiest  work  in  the 
world;"  nor,  being  what  he  was,  could  he  ever  have  found 
it  such  in  his  own  case.  "  Whoever,"  he  declared,  "  is  de- 
voted to  an  art  must  be  content  to  give  himself  wholly  up 
to  it,  and  to  find  his  recompense  in  it."  And  not  only 
did  he  obey  his  own  labour-laws,  but  in  the  details  of  his 
work  as  a  man  of  letters  he  spared  no  pains  and  no  exer- 
cise of  self-control.  "  I  am,"  he  generously  told  a  begin- 
ner, to  whom  he  was  counselling  patient  endeavour,  "an 
impatient  and  impulsive  person  myself,  but  it  has  been 
for  many  years  the  constant  effort  of  my  life  to  practise 
at  my  desk  what  I  preach  to  you."  Never,  therefore  has 
a  man  of  letters  had  a  better  claim  to  be  judged  by  his 
works.  As  he  expressly  said  in  his  will,  he  wished  for  no 
other  monument  than  his  writings ;  and  with  their  aid  we, 
who  already  belong  to  a  new  generation,  and  whose  chil- 
dren will  care  nothing  for  the  gossip  and  the  scandal  of 
which  he,  like  most  popular  celebrities,  was  in  his  lifetime 
privileged  or  doomed  to  become  the  theme,  may  seek  to 
form  some  definite  conception  of  his  future  place  among 
illustrious  Englishmen. 

It  would,  of  course,  be  against  all  experience  to  suppose 
that  to  future  generations  Dickens,  as  a  writer,  will  be  all 


VII.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  193 

that  lie  was  to  his  own.  Much  that  constitutes  the  sub- 
ject, or  at  least  furnishes  the  background,  of  his  pictures 
of  English  life,  like  the  Fleet  Prison  and  the  Marshalsea, 
has  vanished,  or  is  being  improved  off  the  face  of  the  land. 
The  form,  again,  of  Dickens's  principal  works  may  become 
obsolete,  as  it  was  in  a  sense  accidental.  He  was  the 
most  popular  novelist  of  his  day ;  but  should  prose  fiction, 
or  even  the  full  and  florid  species  of  it  which  has  enjoyed 
so  long-lived  a  favour  ever  be  out  of  season,  the  popularity 
of  Dickens's  books  must  experience  an  inevitable  diminu- 
tion. x\nd  even  before  that  day  arrives  not  all  the  works 
in  a  particular  species  of  literature  that  may  to  a  particu- 
lar age  have  seemed  destined  to  live,  will  have  been  pre- 
served. Nothing  is  more  surely  tested  by  time  than  that 
originality  which  is  the  secret  of  a  writer's  continuing  to 
be  famous,  and  continuing  to  be  read. 

Dickens  was  not — and  to  whom  in  these  latter  ages  of 
literature  could  such  a  term  be  applied  ? — a  self-made 
writer,  in  the  sense  that  he  owed  nothing  to  those  who 
had  gone  before  him.  He  was  most  assuredly  no  classical 
scholar — how  could  he  have  been  ?  But  I  should  hesitate 
to  call  him  an  ill-read  man,  though  he  certainly  was 
neither  a  great  nor  a  catholic  reader,  and  though  he  could 
not  help  thinking  about  Nicholas  NicMehy  while  he  was 
reading  the  Curse  of  Kehama.  In  his  own  branch  of  liter- 
ature his  judgment  was  sound  and  sure-footed.  It  was,  of 
course,  a  happy  accident  that  as  a  boy  he  imbibed  that 
taste  for  good  fiction  which  is  a  thing  inconceivable  to 
the  illiterate.  Sneers  have  been  directed  against  the  pov- 
erty of  his  book-shelves  in  his  earlier  days  of  authorship ; 
but  I  fancy  there  were  not  many  popular  novelists  in 
1839  who  would  have  taken  down  with  them  into  the 
country  for  a  summer  sojourn,  as  Dickens  did  to  Peter- 


196  DICKENS.  [chap. 

sham,  not  only  a  couple  of  Scott's  novels,  but  Goldsmith, 
Swift,  Fielding,  Smollett,  and  the  British  Essayists ;  nor 
is  there  one  of  these  national  classics — unless  it  be  Swift 
— with  whom  Dickens's  books  or  letters  fail  to  show  him 
to  have  been  familiar.  Of  Goldsmith's  books,  he.  told 
Forster,  in  a  letter  which  the  biographer  of  Goldsmith 
modestly  suppressed,  he  "  had  no  indifferent  perception — 
to  the  best  of  his  remembrance — when  little  more  than  a 
child."  He  discusses  with  understanding  the  relative  lit- 
erary merits  of  the  serious  and  humorous  papers  in  The 
Si^ectator ;  and,  with  regard  to  another  work  of  unique 
significance  in  the  history  of  English  fiction,  Robinson 
Crusoe,  he  acutely  observed  that  "  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar books  on  earth  has  nothing  in  it  to  make  any  one  laugh 
or  cry."  "It  is  a  book,"  he  added,  which  he  "read  very 
much."  It  may  be  noted,  by-the-way,  that  he  was  an  at- 
tentive and  judicious  student  of  Hogarth ;  and  that  thus 
his  criticisms  of  humorous  pictorial  art  rested  upon  as 
broad  a  basis  of  comparison  as  did  his  judgment  of  his 
great  predecessors  in  English  humorous  fiction. 

Amongst  these  predecessors  it  has  become  usual  to  assert 
that  Smollett  exercised  the  greatest  influence  upon  Dick- 
ens. It  is  no  doubt  true  that  in  David  Coppcrfield's  library 
Smollett's  books  are  mentioned  first,  and  in  the  greatest 
number,  that  a  vision  of  Roderick  Random  and  Strap 
haunted  the  very  wicket -gate  at  Blunderstone,  that  the 
poor  little  hero's  first  thought  on  entering  the  King's 
Bench  prison  was  the  strange  company  whom  Roderick 
met  in  the  Marshalsea;  and  that  the  references  to  Smollett 
and  his  books  are  frequent  in  Dickens's  other  books  and 
in  his  letters.  Leghorn  seemed  to  him  "  made  illustrious  " 
by  Smollett's  grave,  and  in  a  late  period  of  his  life  he  crit- 
icises his  chief  fictions  with  admirable  justice.    ^''Humphry 


VII.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  197 

Clinker^^  he  writes,  "  is  certainly  Smollett's  best.  I  am 
rather  divided  between  Peregrine  Pickle  and  Roderick  Ran- 
dom, both  extraordinarily  good  in  their  way,  which  is  a 
way  without  tenderness ;  but  you  will  have  to  read  them 
both,  and  I  send  the  first  volume  of  Peregrine  as  the  richer 
of  the  two."  An  odd  volume  of  Peregrine  was  one  of  the 
books  with  which  the  waiter  at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn  en- 
deavoured to  beguile  the  lonely  Christmas  of  the  snowed- 
up  traveller,  but  the  latter  "  knew  every  word  of  it  already." 
In  the  Lazy  Tour,  "  Thomas,  now  just  able  to  grope  his 
way  along,  in  a  doubled-up  condition,  was  no  bad  embodi- 
ment of  Commodore  Trunnion."  I  have  noted,  moreover, 
coincidences  of  detail  which  bear  witness  to  Dickens's  fa- 
miliarity with  Smollett's  works.  To  Lieutenant  Bowling 
and  Commodore  Trunnion,  as  to  Captain  Cuttle,  every  man 
was  a  "  brother,"  and  to  the  Commodore,  as  to  Mr.  Small- 
weed,  the  most  abusive  substantive  addressed  to  a  woman 
admitted  of  intensification  by  the  epithet  "  brimstone."  I 
think  Dickens  had  not  forgotten  the  opening  of  the  Ad- 
ventures of  an  Atom  when  he  wrote  a  passage  in  the  open- 
ing of  his  own  Christmas  Carol ;  and  that  the  characters 
of  Tom  Pinch  and  Tommy  Traddles — the  former  more  es- 
pecially— were  not  conceived  without  some  thought  of  hon- 
est Strap.  Furthermore,  it  was  Smollett's  example  that 
probably  suggested  to  Dickens  the  attractive  jingle  in  the 
title  of  his  Nicholas  Nicklehy.  But  these  are  for  the  most 
part  mere  details.  The  manner  of  Dickens  as  a  whole 
resembles  Fielding's  more  strikingly  than  Smollett's,  as  it 
was  only  natural  that  it  should.  The  irony  of  Smollett  is 
drier  than  was  reconcilable  with  Dickens's  nature ;  it  is 
only  in  the  occasional  extravagances  of  his  humour  that 
the  former  anticipates  anything  in  the  latter,  and  it  is  only 
the  coarsest  scenes  of  Dickens's  earlier  books — such  as  that 


198  DICKENS.  [chap. 

between  Noali,  Charlotte,  and  Mrs.  Sowerbery  in  Oliver 
Twist — which  recall  the  whole  manner  of  his  predecessor. 
They  resemble  one  another  in  their  descriptive  accnracy, 
and  in  the  accumulation  of  detail  by  which  they  produce 
instead  of  obscuring  vividness  of  impression ;  but  it  was 
impossible  that  Dickens  should  prefer  the  general  method 
of  the  novel  of  adventure  pure  and  simple,  such  as  Smollett 
produced  after  the  example  of  Gil  Bias,  to  the  less  crude 
form  adopted  by  Fielding,  who  adhered  to  earlier  and  no- 
bler models.  With  Fielding's,  moreover,  Dickens's  whole 
nature  was  congenial ;  they  both  had  that  tenderness  which 
Smollett  lacked ;  and  the  circumstance  that,  of  all  English 
writers  of  the  past,  Fielding's  name  alone  was  given  by 
Dickens  to  one  of  his  sons,  shows  how,  like  so  many  of 
Fielding's  readers,  he  had  learnt  to  love  him  with  an  al- 
most personal  affection.  The  very  spirit  of  the  author  of 
Tom  Jones — that  gaiety  which,  to  borrow  the  saying  of  a 
recent  historian  concerning  Cervantes,  renders  even  brutal- 
ity agreeable,  and  that  charm  of  sympathetic  feeling  which 
makes  us  love  those  of  his  characters  which  he  loves  him- 
self— seem  astir  in  some  of  the  most  delightful  passages 
of  Dickens's  most  delightful  books.  So  in  Pickwick,  to 
begin  with,  in  which,  by  the  way,  Fielding  is  cited  with  a 
twinkle  of  the  eye  all  his  own,  and  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit, 
where  a  chapter  opens  with  a  passage  which  is  pure 
Fielding : 

"  It  was  morning,  and  the  beautiful  Aurora,  of  whom  so  much  hath 
been  written,  said,  and  sung,  did,  with  her  rosy  fingers,  nip  and  twealc 
Miss  Pecksniff's  nose.  It  was  the  frohcsome  custom  of  the  goddess, 
in  her  intercourse  with  the  fair  Cherry,  to  do  so ;  or,  in  more  prosaic 
phrase,  the  tip  of  that  feature  in  the  sweet  girl's  countenance  was 
always  very  red  at  breakfast-time." 

Amongst  the  writers  of  Dickens's  own  age  there  were 


til]  the  future  of  DICKEXS'S  fame.  199 

only  two,  or  perhaps  three,  who  in  very  different  degrees 
and  ways  exercised  a  noticeable  influence  upon  his  writ- 
ings. He  once  declared  to  AYashington  Irving  that  he 
tept  everything  written  by  that  delightful  author  upon 
"his  shelves,  and  in  his  thoughts,  and  in  his  heart  of 
hearts."  And,  doubtless,  in  Dickens's  early  days  as  an  au- 
thor the  influence  of  the  American  classic  may  have  aided 
to  stimulate  the  imaginative  element  in  his  English  ad- 
mirer's genius,  and  to  preserve  him  from  a  grossness  of 
humour  into  which,  after  the  Sketches  by  Boz,  he  very 
rarely  allowed  himself  to  lapse.  The  two  other  writers 
were  Carlyle,  and,  as  I  have  frequently  noted  in  previous 
chapters,  the  friend  and  fellow-labourer  of  Dickens's  later 
manhood,  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins.  It  is  no  unique  experience 
that  the  disciple  should  influence  the  master ;  and  in  this 
instance,  perhaps  with  the  co-operation  of  the  examples  of 
the  modern  French  theatre,  which  the  two  friends  had 
studied  in  common,  Mr.  AVilkie  CoUins's  manner  had,  I 
think,  no  small  share  in  bringing  about  a  transformation  in 
that  of  Dickens.  His  stories  thus  gradually  lost  all  traces 
of  the  older  masters  both  in  general  method  and  in  detail; 
whilst  he  came  to  condense  and  concentrate  his  effects  in 
successions  of  skilfully-arranged  scenes.  Dickens's  debt  to 
Carlyle  was,  of  course,  of  another  nature ;  and  in  his  works 
the  proofs  are  not  few  of  his  readiness  to  accept  the  teach- 
ings of  one  whom  he  declared  he  would  "  go  at  all  times 
farther  to  see  than  any  man  alive."  There  was  something 
singular  in  the  admiration  these  two  men  felt  for  one  an- 
other ;  for  Carlyle,  after  an  acquaintance  of  almost  thirty 
years,  spoke  of  Dickens  as  "a  most  cordial,  sincere,  clear- 
sighted, quietly  decisive,  just,  and  loving  man ;"  and  there 
is  not  one  of  these  epithets  but  seems  well  considered  and 
well  chosen.     But  neither  Carlyle  nor  Dickens  possessed  a 


200  DICKENS.  [chap. 

moral  quality  omitted  in  this  list,  tlie  quality  of  patience, 
which  abhors  either  "quietly"  or  loudly  "deciding"  a 
question  before  considering  it  under  all  its  aspects,  and 
in  a  spirit  of  fairness  to  all  sides.  The  Latter-Day  Pam- 
phlets^ to  confine  myself  to  them,^  like  so  much  of  the 
political  philosophy,  if  it  is  to  be  dignified  by  that  name, 
which  in  part  Dickens  derived  from  them,  were  at  the 
time  effective  strokes  of  satirical  invective;  now,  their 
edge  seems  blunt  atxi  their  energy  inflation.  Take  the 
pamphlet  on  Model  Prisons,  with  its  summary  of  a  theory 
which  Dickens  sought  in  every  way  to  enforce  upon  his 
readers ;  or  again,  that  entitled  Downing  Street,  which  set- 
tles the  question  of  party  government  as  a  question  of  the 
choice  between  Buffy  and  Boodle,  or,  according  to  Carlyle, 
the  Honourable  Felix  Parvulus  and  the  Right  Honourable 
Felicissimus  Zero.  The  corrosive  power  of  such  sarcasms 
may  be  unquestionable;  but  the  angry  rhetoric  pointed  by 
them  becomes  part  of  the  nature  of  those  who  habitually 
employ  its  utterance  in  lieu  of  argument ;  and  not  a  little 
of  the  declamatory  element  in  Dickens,  which  no  doubt  at 
first  exercised  its  effect  upon  a  large  number  of  readers, 
must  be  ascribed  to  his  reading  of  a  great  writer  who  was 
often  very  much  more  stimulative  than  nutritious. 

Something,  then,  he  owed  to  other  writers,  but  it  was  lit- 
tle indeed  in  comparison  with  what  he  owed  to  his  natural 
gifts.  First  amongst  these,  I  think,  must  be  placed  what  may, 
in  a  word,  be  called  his  sensibility — that  quality  of  which 
humour,  in  the  more  limited  sense  of  the  word,  and  pathos 

'  The  passage  in  Oliver  Twist  (chapter  xxxvii.)  which  illustrates 
the  maxim  that  '*  dignity,  and  even  holiness  too,  sometimes  are  moro 
questions  of  coat  and  waistcoat  than  some  people  imagine,"  may,  or 
may  not,  be  a  reminiscence  of  Sartor  Eesm^tus,  then  (1838)  first  pub- 
lished in  a  volume. 


Yii.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  201 

are  the  twin  products.  And  in  Dickens  both  these  were 
paramount  powers,  almost  equally  various  in  their  forms 
and  effective  in  their  operation.  According  to  M.  Taine, 
Dickens,  whilst  he  excels  in  irony  of  a  particular  sort, 
being  an  Englishman,  is  incapable  of  being  gay.  Such 
profundities  are  unfathomable  to  the  readers  of  Pick- 
luick ;  though  the  French  critic  may  have  generalised 
from  Dickens's  later  writings  only.  His  pathos  is  not 
less  true  than  various,  for  the  gradations  are  marked  be- 
tween the  stern,  tragic  pathos  of  Hard  Times,  the  melt- 
ing pathos  of  the  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Domhey  and  Son, 
and  David  Copperjield,  and  the  pathos  of  helplessness 
which  appeals  to  us  in  Smike  and  Jo.  But  this  sensi- 
bility would  not  have  given  us  Dickens's  gallery  of  liv- 
ing pictures  had  it  not  been  for  the  powers  of  imagina- 
tion and  observation  which  enabled  him  spontaneously  to 
exercise  it  in  countless  directions.  To  the  way  in  which 
his  imagination  enabled  him  to  identify  himself  with  the 
figments  of  his  own  brain  he  frequently  testified;  Dante 
was  not  more  certain  in  his  celestial  and  infernal  topogra- 
phy than  was  Dickens  as  to  "  every  stair  in  the  little  mid- 
shipman's house,"  and  as  to  "every  young  gentleman's 
bedstead  in  Dr.  Blimber's  establishment."  One  particular 
class  of  phenomena  may  be  instanced  instead  of  many,  in 
the  observation  and  poetic  reproduction  of  which  his  sin- 
gular natural  endowment  continually  manifested  itself — I 
mean  those  of  the  weather.  It  is  not,  indeed,  often  that 
he  rises  to  a  fine  image  like  that  in  the  description  of  the 
night  in  which  Ralph  Nickleby,  ruined  and  crushed,  slinks 
home  to  his  death : 

"  The  night  was  dark,  and  a  cold  wind  blew,  driving  the  clouds 
furiously  and  fast  before  it.  There  was  one  black,  gloomy  mass 
that  seemed  to  follow  him :  not  hurrying  in  the  wild  chase  with  the 


202  DICKENS.  [chap. 

others,  but  lingering  sullenly  behind,  and  gliding  darkly  and  stealth- 
ily on.  He  often  looked  back  at  this,  and  more  than  once  stopped 
to  let  it  pass  over;  but,  somehow,  when  he  went  forward  again  it 
was  still  behind  him,  coming  mournfully  and  slowly  up,  like  a  shad- 
owy funeral  train." 

But  he  again  and  again  enables  us  to  feel  as  if  the  Christ- 
mas morning  on  which  Mr.  Pickwick  ran  gaily  down  the 
slide,  or  as  if  the  "  very  quiet"  moonlit  night  in  the  midst 
of  which  a  sudden  sound,  like  the  firing  of  a  gun  or  a  pis- 
tol, startled  the  repose  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  were  not 
only  what  we  have  often  precisely  experienced  in  country 
villages  or  in  London  squares,  but  as  if  they  were  the  very 
morning  and  the  very  night  which  we  must  experience,  if 
we  were  feeling  the  glow  of  wintry  merriment,  or  the  aw- 
ful chill  of  the  presentiment  of  evil  in  a  dead  hour.  In 
its  lower  form  this  combination  of  the  powers  of  imagina- 
tion and  observation  has  the  rapidity  of  wit,  and,  indeed, 
sometimes  is  wit.  The  gift  of  suddenly  finding  out  what 
a  man,  a  thing,  a  combination  of  man  and  thing,  is  like — 
this,  too,  comes  by  nature ;  and  there  is  something  electri- 
fying in  its  sudden  exercise,  even  on  the  most  trivial  occa- 
sions, as  when  Flora,  delighted  with  Little  Dorrit's  sudden 
rise  to  fortune,  requests  to  know  all 

"  about  the  good,  dear,  quiet  little  thing,  and  all  the  changes  of  her 
fortunes,  carriage  people  now,  no  doubt,  and  horses  without  number 
most  romantic,  a  coat  of  arms,  of  course,  and  wild  beasts  on  their 
hind  legs,  showing  it  as  if  it  was  a  copy  they  had  done  with  mouths 
from  ear  to  car,  good  gracious  !" 

But  Nature,  when  she  gifted  Dickens  with  sensibility, 
observation,  and  imagination,  had  bestowed  upon  him  yet 
another  boon  in  the  quality  which  seems  more  prominent 
than  any  other  in  his  whole  being.  The  vigour  of  Dick- 
ens— a  mental  and  moral  vigour  supported  by  a  splendid 
physical  organism — was  the  parent  of  some  of  his  foibles ; 


til]  the  future  of  DICKEXS'S  fame.  203 

amongst  the  rest,  of  his  tendency  to  exaggeration.  No 
fault  has  been  more  frequently  found  with  his  workman- 
ship than  this ;  nor  can  he  be  said  to  have  defended  him- 
self very  successfully  on  this  head  when  he  declared  that 
he  did  "  not  recollect  ever  to  have  heard  or  seen  the  charge 
of  exaggeration  made  against  a  feeble  performance,  though, 
in  its  feebleness,  it  may  have  been  most  untrue."  But 
without  this  vigour  he  could  not  have  been  creative  as  he 
was;  and  in  him  there  were  accordingly  united  with  rare 
completeness  a  swift  responsiveness  to  the  impulses  of  hu- 
mour and  pathos,  an  inexhaustible  fertility  in  discovering 
and  inventing  materials  for  their  exercise,  and  the  constant 
creative  desire  to  give  to  these  newly-created  materials  a 
vivid  plastic  form. 

And  the  mention  of  this  last-named  gift  in  Dickens 
suggests  the  query  whether,  finally,  there  is  anything  in 
his  manner  as  a  writer  which  may  prevent  the  continuance 
of  hig  extraordinary  popularity.  No  writer  can  be  great 
without  a  manner  of  his  own  ;  and  that  Dickens  had  such 
a  manner  his  most  supercilious  censurer  will  readily  allow. 
His  terse  narrative  power,  often  intensely  humorous  in  its 
unblushing  and  unwinking  gravity,  and  often  deeply  pa- 
thetic in  its  simplicity,  is  as  characteristic  of  his  manner  as 
is  the  supreme  felicity  of  phrase,  in  which  he  has  no  equal. 
As  to  the  latter,  I  should  hardly  know  where  to  begin  and 
where  to  leave  off  were  I  to  attempt  to  illustrate  it.  But, 
to  take  two  instances  of  different  kinds  of  wit,  I  may  cite 
a  passage  in  Ouster's  narrative  of  her  interview  with  Lady 
Dedlock :  "And  so  I  took  the  letter  from  her,  and  she  said 
she  had  nothing  to  give  me ;  and  /  said  I  was  iwor  my- 
self^ and  consequently  ivanted  nothing ;^''  and,  of  a  different 
kind,  the  account  in  one  of  his  letters  of  a  conversation 
with  Macready,  in  which  the  great  tragedian,  after  a  sol- 


204  DICKENS.  [chap. 

emn  but  impassioned  commendation  of  his  friend's  read- 
ing, "put  bis  band  upon  my  breast  and  pulled  out  bis 
pocket-bandkercbief,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  doing  some- 
body to  his  Werner^  Tbese,  I  tbink,  were  amongst  tbe 
most  characteristic  merits  of  bis  style.  It  also,  and  more 
especially  in  bis  later  years,  bad  its  characteristic  faults. 
Tbe  danger  of  degenerating  into  mannerism  is  incident  to 
every  original  manner.  There  is  mannerism  in  most  of 
tbe  great  English  prose-writers  of  Dickens's  age — in  Car- 
lyle,  in  Macaulay,  in  Thackeray — but  in  none  of  them  is 
there  more  mannerism  than  in  Dickens  himself.  In  his 
earlier  writings,  in  Nicholas  NicMehj^  for  instance  (I  do 
not,  of  course,  refer  to  tbe  Portsmouth  boards),  and  even 
in  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  there  is  much  staginess;  but  in  bis 
later  works  bis  own  mannerism  had  swallowed  up  that  of 
tbe  stage,  and,  more  especially  in  serious  passages,  bis  style 
bad  become  what  M.  Taine  happily  characterises  as  le  style 
tourmente.  Ilis  choice  of  words  remained  throughout  ex- 
cellent, and  his  construction  of  sentences  clear.  lie  told 
Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  that  "  underlining  was  not  his  nature;" 
and  in  truth  he  had  no  need  to  emphasise  his  expressions, 
or  to  bid  the  reader  "go  back  upon  their  meaning."  He 
recognised  bis  responsibility,  as  a  popular  writer,  in  keep- 
ing the  vocabulary  of  tbe  language  pure;  and  in  Little 
Dorrit  be  even  solemnly  declines  to  use  tbe  French  word 
trousseau.  In  bis  orthography,  on  tbe  other  band,  be  was 
not  free  from  Americanisms ;  and  his  intcrpunctuation  was 
consistently  odd.  But  these  are  trifles;  bis  more  impor- 
tant mannerisiBS  were,  like  many  really  dangerous  faults  of 
style,  only  tbe  excess  of  characteristic  excellences.  Thus 
it  was  be  who  elaborated  with  unprecedented  effect  that 
humorous  species  of  paraphrase  which,  as  one  of  the  most 
imitable  devices  of  bis  style,  has  also  been  the  most  per- 


til]  the  future  of  DICKEXS'S  fame.  205 

sistently  imitated.  We  are  all  tickled  Avhen  Grip,  the 
raven,  "  issues  orders  for  the  instant  preparation  of  innu- 
merable kettles  for  purposes  of  tea ;"  or  when  Mr.  Peck- 
snifiE's  eye  is  "  piously  upraised,  -with  something  of  that 
expression  which  the  poetry  of  ages  has  attributed  to  a 
domestic  bird,  when  breathing  its  last  amid  the  ravages  of 
an  electric  storm ;"  but  in  the  end  the  device  becomes  a 
mere  trick  of  circumlocution.  Another  mannerism  which 
grew  upon  Dickens,  and  was  faithfully  imitated  by  several 
of  his  disciples,  was  primarily  due  to  his  habit  of  turning 
a  fact,  fancy,  or  situation  round  on  every  side.  This  con- 
sisted in  the  reiteration  of  a  construction,  or  of  part  of  a 
construction,  in  the  strained  rhetorical  fashion  to  which 
he  at  last  accustomed  us  in  spite  of  ourselves,  but  to 
which  we  were  loath  to  submit  in  his  imitators.  These 
and  certain  other  peculiarities,  which  it  would  be  difficult 
to  indicate  without  incurring  the  charge  of  hypercriticism, 
hardened  as  the  style  of  Dickens  hardened ;  and,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  Tale  of  Tivo  Cities  his  mannerisms  may  be 
seen  side  by  side  in  glittering  array.  By  way  of  compen- 
sation, the  occasional  solecisms  and  vulgarisms  of  his  ear- 
lier style  (he  only  very  gradually  ridded  himself  of  the 
cockney  habit  of  punning)  no  longer  marred  his  pages; 
and  he  ceased  to  break  or  lapse  occasionally,  in  highly- 
impassioned  passages,  into  blank  verse. 

From  first  to  last  Dickens's  mannerism,  like  everything 
which  he  made  part  of  himself,  was  not  merely  assumed 
on  occasion,  but  was,  so  to  speak,  absorbed  into  his  nature. 
It  shows  itself  in  almost  everything  that  he  wrote  in  his 
later  years,  from  the  most  carefully-elaborated  chapters  of 
his  books  down  to  the  most  deeply-felt  passages  of  his 
most  familiar  correspondence,  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
genuine  pathos  and  most  exuberant  humour  of  his  books, 


206  DICKENS.  [chap. 

and  in  tlie  midst  of  the  sound  sense  and  unaffected  piety 
of  Lis  private  letters.  Future  generations  may,  for  this 
very  reason,  be  perplexed  and  irritated  by  what  we  merely 
stumbled  at,  and  may  wish  that  what  is  an  element  hard- 
ly separable  from  many  of  Dickens's  compositions  were 
away  from  them,  as  one  wishes  away  from  his  signature 
that  horrible  flourish  which  in  his  letters  he  sometimes 
represents  himself  as  too  tired  to  append. 

But  no  distaste  for  his  mannerisms  is  likely  to  obscure 
the  sense  of  his  achievements  in  the  branch  of  literature 
to  which  he  devoted  the  full  powers  of  his  genius  and  the 
best  energies  of  his  nature.  lie  introduced,  indeed,  no 
new  species  of  prose  fiction  into  our  literature.  In  the 
historical  novel  he  made  two  far  from  unsuccessful  essays, 
in  the  earlier  of  which  in  particular — Barnahy  Rudge — lie 
showed  a  laudable  desire  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  past 
age;  but  he  was  without  the  reading  or  the  patience  of 
either  the  author  of  WavevUy  or  the  author  of  The  Vir- 
ginians^  and  without  the  fine  historic  enthusiasm  which 
animates  the  broader  workmanship  of  Weshvard  Ho.  For 
the  purely  imaginative  romance,  on  the  other  hand,  of 
which  in  some  of  his  works  Lord  Lytton  was  the  most 
prominent  representative  in  contemporary  English  litera- 
ture, Dickens's  genius  was  not  without  certain  affinities ; 
but,  to  feel  his  full  strength,  he  needed  to  touch  the  earth 
with  his  feet.  Thus  it  is  no  mere  phrase  to  say  of  him 
that  he  found  the  ideal  in  the  real,  and  drew  his  inspira- 
tions from  the  world  around  him.  Perhaps  the  strongest 
temptation  which  ever  seemed  likely  to  divert  him  from 
the  sounder  forms  in  which  his  masterpieces  were  cast 
lay  in  the  direction  of  the  7iovel  with  a  purpose,  the  fiction 
intended  primarily  and  above  all  things  to  promote  the 
correction  of  some  social  abuse,  or  the  achievement   of 


VII.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKEXS'S  FAME.  207 

some  social  reform.  But  in  spite  of  himself,  to  whom  the 
often  voiceless  cause  of  the  suffering  and  the  oppressed 
was  at  all  times  dearer  than  any  mere  literary  success,  he 
was  preserved  from  binding  his  muse,  as  his  friend  Cruik- 
shank  bound  his  art,  handmaid  in  a  service  with  which 
freedom  was  irreconcilable.  His  artistic  instinct  helped 
him  in  this,  and  perhaps  also  the  consciousness  that  where, 
as  in  The  Chimes  or  in  Hard  Times,  he  had  gone  furthest 
in  this  direction,  there  had  been  something  jarring  in  the 
result.  Thus,  under  the  influences  described  above,  he 
carried  on  the  English  novel  mainly  in  the  directions 
which  it  had  taken  under  its  early  masters,  and  more 
especially  in  those  in  which  the  essential  attributes  of  his 
own  genius  prompted  him  to  excel. 

Amongst  the  elements  on  which  the  effect  alike  of  the 
novelist's  and  of  the  dramatist's  work  must,  apart  from 
style  and  diction,  essentially  depend,  that  of  construction 
is  obviously  one  of  the  most  significant.  In  this  Dickens 
was,  in  the  earlier  period  of  his  authorship,  very  far  from 
strong.  This  was  due  in  part  to  the  accident  that  he  be- 
gan his  literary  career  as  a  writer  of  Sketches,  and  that  his 
first  continuous  book,  Pickwick,  was  originally  designed  as 
little  more  than  a  string  of  such.  It  was  due  in  a  still 
greater  measure  to  the  influence  of  those  masters  of  Eng- 
lish fiction  with  whom  he  had  been  familiar  from  boy- 
hood, above  all  to  Smollett.  And  though,  by  dint  of  his 
usual  energy,  he  came  to  be  able  to  invent  a  plot  so  gen- 
erally effective  as  that  of  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  or,  I  was 
about  to  say,  of  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,  yet  on  this 
head  he  had  had  to  contend  against  a  special  diflSculty  ;  I 
mean,  of  course,  the  publication  of  most  of  his  books  in 
monthly  or  even  weekly  numbers.  In  the  case  of  a  writer 
both  pathetic  and  humorous  the  serial  method  of  publica- 


208  DICKENS.  [chap. 

tion  leads  the  public  to  expect  its  due  allowance  of  both 
pathos  and  humour  every  month  or  weet,  even  if  eacli 
number,  to  borrow  a  homely  simile  applied  in  Oliver  Twist 
to  books  in  general,  need  not  contain  *'  the  tragic  and  the 
comic  scenes  in  as  regular  alternation  as  the  layers  of 
red  and  white  in  a  side  of  streaky  bacon."  And  again,  as 
in  a  melodrama  of  the  old  school,  each  serial  division  has, 
if  possible,  to  close  emphatically,  effectively,  with  a  prom- 
ise of  yet  stranger,  more  touching,  more  laughable  things 
to  come.  On  the  other  hand,  with  this  form  of  publica- 
tion repetition  is  frequently  necessary  by  way  of  "  remind- 
er" to  indolent  readers,  whose  memory  needs  refreshing 
after  the  long  pauses  between  the  acts.  Fortunately, 
Dickens  abhorred  living,  as  it  were,  from  hand  to  mouth, 
and  thus  diminished  the  dangers  to  which,  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  Thackeray  at  times  almost  succumbed.  Yet, 
notwithstanding,  in  the  arrangement  of  his  incidents  and 
the  contrivance  of  his  plots  it  is  often  impossible  to  avoid 
noting  the  imperfection  of  the  machinery,  or  at  least  the 
traces  of  effort.  I  have  already  said  under  what  influences, 
in  my  opinion,  Dickens  acquired  a  constructive  skill  which 
would  have  been  conspicuous  in  most  other  novelists. 

If  in  the  combination  of  parts  the  workmanship  of 
Dickens  was  not  invariably  of  the  best,  on  the  other  hand 
in  the  invention  of  those  parts  themselves  he  excelled, 
his  imaginative  power  and  dramatic  instinct  combining  to 
produce  an  endless  succession  of  effective  scenes  and  situ- 
ations, ranging  through  almost  every  variety  of  the  pa- 
thetic and  the  humorous.  In  no  direction  w-as  nature  a 
more  powerful  aid  to  art  with  him  than  in  this.  From 
his  very  boyhood  he  appears  to  have  possessed  in  a  devel- 
oped form  Avhat  many  others  may  pc^sess  in  its  germ,  the 
faculty  of  converting  into  a  scene — putting,  as  it  were. 


til]  the  future  of  DICKENS'S  FAME.  209 

into  a  frame — personages  that  came  under  his  notice,  and 
the  background  on  which  he  saw  them.  Who  can  forget 
the  scene  in  David  Copi:)erjield  in  which  the  friendless 
little  boy  attracts  the  wonderment  of  the  good  people  of 
the  public-house  where — it  being  a  special  occasion — he 
has  demanded  a  glass  of  their  "  very  best  ale,  with  a  head 
to  it?"  In  the  autobiographical  fragment  already  cited, 
where  the  story  appears  in  almost  the  same  words,  Dickens 
exclaims : 

"  Here  we  stand,  all  three,  before  me  now,  in  my  study  in  Devon- 
shire  Terrace.  The  landlord,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  against  the 
bar  window-frame  ;  his  wife,  looking  over  the  little  half-door ;  and  I, 
in  some  confusion,  looking  up  at  them  from  outside  the  partition." 

lie  saw  the  scene  while  he  was  an  actor  in  it.  Already 
the  Sketches  by  Box  showed  the  exuberance  of  this  power, 
and  in  his,  last  years  more  than  one  paper  in  the  delight- 
ful Uncommercial  Traveller  series  proved  it  to  be  as  inex- 
liaustible  as  ever,  while  the  art  with  w^hich  it  was  exercised 
had  become  more  refined.  Who  has  better  described  (for 
who  was  more  sensitive  to  it  ?)  the  mysterious  influence  of 
crowds,  and  who  the  pitiful  pathos  of  solitude?  Who 
has  ever  surpassed  Dickens  in  his  representations,  varied 
a  thousandfold,  but  still  appealing  to  the  same  emotions, 
common  to  us  all,  of  the  crises  or  turning-points  of  huraau 
life  ?  Who  has  dwelt  with  a  more  potent  effect  on  that 
catastrophe  which  the  drama  of  every  human  life  must 
reach ;  whose  scenes  of  death  in  its  pathetic,  pitiful,  rev- 
erend, terrible,  ghastly  forms  speak  more  to  the  imagina- 
tion and  more  to  the  heart?  There  is,  however,  one  spe- 
cies of  scenes  in  which  the  genius  of  Dickens  seems  to  me 
to  exercise  a  still  stfonger  spell  —  those  which  precede  a 
catastrophe,  which  are  charged  like  thunder-clouds  with 
10 


210  DICKENS.  [cuAP. 

the  comino:  storm.  And  licre  the  constructive  art  is  at 
work ;  for  it  is  the  arrangement  of  the  incidents,  past  and 
to  come,  combined  by  anticipation  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  which  gives  their  extraordinary  force  to  such  scenes 
as  the  nocturnal  watching  of  Nancy  by  Noah,  or  Carker's 
early  walk  to  the  railway  station,  where  he  is  to  meet  his 
doom.  Extremely  powerful,  too,  in  a  rather  different  way, 
is  the  scene  in  Little  Dorrit^  described  in  a  word  or  two, 
of  the  parting  of  Bar  and  Physician  at  dawn,  after  they 
have  "  found  out  Mr.  Merdle's  complaint :" 

*'  Before  parting,  at  Physician's  door,  they  both  looked  up  at  the 
sunny  morning  sky,  into  which  the  smoke  of  a  few  early  fires,  and 
the  breath  and  voices  of  a  few  early  stirrers,  were  peacefully  rising, 
and  then  looked  round  upon  the  immense  city  and  said :  '  If  all  those 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  beggared  people  who  were  yet  asleep 
could  only  know,  as  they  two  spoke,  the  ruin  that  impended  over 
them,  what  a  fearful  cry  against  one  miserable  soul  would  go  up  to 
Heaven !' " 

Nor  is  it  awe  only,  but  pity  also,  which  he  is  able  thus 
to  move  beforehand,  as  in  Domhey  and  Son,  in  the  incom- 
parable scenes  leading  up  to  little  Paul's  death. 

More  diverse  opinions  have  been  expressed  as  to  Dick- 
ens's mastery  of  that  highest  part  of  the  novelist's  art, 
which  we  call  characterisation.  Undoubtedly,  the  charac- 
ters which  he  draws  are  included  in  a  limited  range.  Yet 
I  question  whether  their  range  can  be  justly  termed  nar- 
row as  compared  with  that  commanded  by  any  other  great 
English  novelist  except  Scott,  or  with  those  of  many  nov- 
elists of  other  literatures  except  Balzac.  But  within  his 
own  range  Dickens  is  unapproachcd.  His  novels  do  not 
altogether  avoid  the  common  danger  of  uninteresting  he- 
roes and  insipid  heroines;  but  only  a  very  few  of  his 
heroes  are  conventionally  declamatory  like  Nicholas  Nick- 


vn.J  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  211 

leby,  and  few  of  his  heroines  simper  sentimentally  like 
Rose  Maylie.  Nor  can  I  for  a  moment  assent  to  the  con- 
demnation which  has  been  pronounced  upon  all  the  female 
characters  in  Dickens's  books,  as  more  or  less  feeble  or 
artificial.  At  the  same  time  it  is  true  that  from  women 
of  a  mightier  mould  Dickens's  imagination  turns  aside; 
he  could  not  have  drawn  a  Dorothea  Casaubon  any  more 
than  he  could  have  drawn  Romola  herself.  Similarly,  he- 
roes of  the  chivalrous  or  magnanimous  type,  representa- 
tives of  2i:enerous  effort  in  a  great  cause,  will  not  easily  be 
met  with  in  his  writings :  he  never  even  essayed  the  pict- 
ure of  an  artist  devoted  to  Art  for  her  own  sake. 

It  suited  the  genius,  and  in  later  years  perhaps  the 
temper,  of  Dickens  as  an  author  to  leave  out  of  sight 
those  "public  virtues"  to  which  no  man  was  in  truth  less 
blind  than  himself,  and  to  remain  content  with  the  illus- 
tration of  types  of  the  private  or  domestic  kind.  We 
may  cheerfully  take  to  us  the  censure  that  our  great  hu- 
mourist was  in  nothing  more  English  than  in  this — that 
his  sympathy  with  the  affections  of  the  hearth  and  the 
home  knew  almost  no  bounds.  A  symbolisation  of  this 
may  be  found  in  the  honour  which,  from  the  Sketches  and 
Pickioick  onwards,  through  a  long  series  of  Christmas 
books  and  Christmas  numbers,  Dickens,  doubtless  very 
consciously,  paid  to  the  one  great  festival  of  English 
family  life.  Yet  so  far  am  I  from  agreeing  with  those 
critics  who  think  that  he  is  hereby  lowered  to  the  level  of 
the  poets  of  the  teapot  and  the  plum-pudding,  that  I  am 
at  a  loss  how  to  express  my  admiration  for  this  side  of 
his  genius — tender  with  the  tenderness  of  Cowper,  playful 
with  the  playfulness  of  Goldsmith,  natural  with  the  natu- 
ralness of  the  author  of  Amelia.  Who  was  ever  more  at 
home  with  children  than  he,  and,  for  that  matter,  with 


212  DICKENS.  [chap. 

babies  to  begin  witli?  Mr.  Home  relates  how  he  once 
heard  a  lady  exclaim  :  "  Oh,  do  read  to  us  about  the 
baby ;  Dickens  is  capital  at  a  baby !"  Even  when  most 
playful,  most  farcical  concerning  children,  his  fun  is  rarely 
without  something  of  true  tenderness,  for  he  knew  the 
meaning  of  that  dreariest  solitude  which  he  has  so  often 
pictured,  but  nowhere,  of  course,  with  a  truthfulness  going 
so  straight  to  the  heart  as  in  David  Copperjield — the  soli- 
tude of  a  child  left  to  itself.  Another  wonderfully  true 
child-character  is  that  of  Pip,  in  Great  Expectations,  who 
is  also,  as  his  years  progress,  an  admirable  study  of  boy- 
nature.  For  Dickens  thoroughly  understood  what  that 
mysterious  variety  of  humankind  really  is,  and  was  al- 
ways, if  one  may  so  say,  on  the  lookout  for  him.  He 
knew  him  in  the  brightness  and  freshness  which  makes 
true  ingenus  of  such  delightful  characters  (rare  enough  in 
fiction)  as  Walter  Gay  and  Mrs.  Lirriper's  grandson.  He 
knew  him  in  his  festive  mood — witness  the  amusing  letter 
in  which  he  describes  a  water-expedition  at  Eton  with  his 
son  and  two  of  his  irrepressible  school-fellows.  He  knew 
him  in  his  precocity — the  boy  of  about  three  feet  high,  at 
the  "George  and  Vulture,"  "  in  a  hairy  cap  and  fustian  over- 
alls, whose  garb  bespoke  a  laudable  ambition  to  attain  in 
time  the  elevation  of  an  hostler ;"  and  the  thing  on  the 
roof  of  the  Harrisburg  coach,  which,  when  the  rain  was 
over,  slowly  upreared  itself,  and  patronisingly  piped  out 
the  enquiry  :  "  Well,  now,  stranger,  I  guess  you  find  this 
a'most  like  an  English  artcrnoon,  hey  ?"  He  knew  the 
Gavroche  who  danced  attendance  on  Mr.  Quilp  at  his 
wharf,  and  those  strangest,  but  by  no  means  least  true, 
types  of  all,  the  pupil-teachers  in  Mr.  Fagin's  academy. 

But  these,  with  the  exception  of  the  last-named,  which 
show  much  shrewd  and  kindly  insight  into  the  paradoxes 


VII.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKEXS^S  FAME.  213 

of  human  nature,  are,  of  course,  the  mere  croquis  of  the 
great  humourist's  pencil.  His  men  and  women,  and  the 
passions,  the  desires,  the  loves,  and  hatreds  that  agitate 
them,  lie  has  usually  chosen  to  depict  on  that  background 
of  domestic  life  which  is  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  com- 
mon to  us  all.  And  it  is  thus  also  that  he  has  secured  to 
himself  the  vast  public  which  vibrates  very  differently  from 
a  mere  class  or  section  of  society  to  the  touch  of  a  popu- 
lar speaker  or  writer.  "  The  more,"  he  writes,  "  we  see  of 
life  and  its  brevity,  and  the  world  and  its  varieties,  the 
more  we  know  that  no  exercise  of  our  abilities  in  any  art, 
but  the  addressing  of  it  to  the  great  ocean  of  humanity  in 
which  we  are  drops,  and  not  to  by-ponds  (very  stagnant) 
here  and  there,  ever  can  or  ever  will  lay  the  foundations 
of  an  endurable  retrospect."  The  types  of  character  which 
in  his  fictions  he  chiefly  delights  in  reproducing  are  accord- 
ingly those  which  most  of  us  have  opportunities  enough 
of  comparing  with  the  realities  around  us ;  and  this  test, 
a  sound  one  within  reasonable  limits,  w^as  the  test  he  de- 
manded. To  no  other  author  were  his  own  characters  ever 
more  real ;  and  Forstcr  observes  that  "  what  he  had  most  to 
notice  in  Dickens  at  the  very  outset  of  his  career  was  his 
indifference  to  any  praise  of  his  performances  on  the. merely 
literary  side,  compared  with  the  higher  recognition  of  them 
as  bits  of  actual  life,  with  the  meaning  and  purpose,  on 
their  part,  and  the  responsibility  on  his,  of  real' ties,  rather 
than  creations  of  fancy."  It  is,  then,  the  favourite  growths 
of  our  own  age  and  country  for  which  we  shall  most  readily 
look  in  his  works,  and  not  look  in  vain  :  avarice  and  prod- 
igality ;  pride  in  all  its  phases;  hypocrisy  in  its  endless 
varieties,  unctuous  and  plausible,  fawning  and  self-satisfied, 
formal  and  moral ;  and,  on  the  other  side,  faithfulness, 
simplicity,  long-suffering  patience,  and  indomitable  heroic 


214  DICKENS.  [chap. 

good-hnmonr.  Do  we  not  daily  make  room  on  the  pave- 
ment for  Mr.  Dombey,  erect,  solemn,  and  icy,  along-side  of 
whom  in  the  road  Mr.  Carker  deferentially  walks  his  sleek 
horse?  Do  we  not  know  more  than  one  Anthony  Chnz- 
zlewit  laying  up  money  for  himself  and  his  son,  and  a 
curse  for  both  along  with  it;  and  many  a  Richard  Cars- 
ton,  sinking,  sinking,  as  the  hope  grows  feebler  that  Justice 
or  Fortune  will  at  last  help  one  who  has  not  learnt  how  to 
help  himself  ?  And  will  not  prodigals  of  a  more  buoyant 
kind,  like  the  immortal  Mr.  Micawber  (though,  maybe,  with 
an  eloquence  less  ornate  than  his),  when  their  boat  is  on 
the  shore  and  their  bark  is  on  the  sea,  become  "  perfectly 
business-like  and  perfectly  practical,"  and  propose,  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  a  parting  gift  we  had  neither  hoped  nor 
desired  to  see  again,  "  bills  "  or,  if  we  should  prefer  it, 
"  a  bond,  or  any  other  description  of  security  ?"  All  this 
will  happen  to  us,  as  surely  as  we  shall  be  buttonholed 
by  Pecksniffs  in  a  state  of  philanthropic  exultation;  and 
watched  round  corners  by  'umblc  but  observant  Uriah 
Heeps ;  and  affronted  in  what  is  best  in  us  by  the  worst 
hypocrite  of  all,  the  hypocrite  of  religion,  who  flaunts  in 
our  eyes  his  greasy  substitute  for  what  he  calls  the  "light 
of  terewth."  To  be  sure,  unless  it  be  Mr.  Chadband  and 
those  of  his  tribe,  we  shall  find  the  hypocrite  and  the  man- 
out-at-elbows  in  real  life  less  endurable  than  their  repre- 
sentatives in  fiction ;  for  Dickens  well  understood  "  that 
if  you  do  not  administer  a  disagreeable  character  carefully, 
the  public  have  a  decided  tendency  to  think  that  the  story 
is  disagreeable,  and  not  merely  the  fictitious  form."  His 
economy  is  less  strict  with  characters  of  the  opposite  class, 
true  copies  of  Nature's  own  handiwork — the  Tom  Pinches 
and  Trotty  Vecks  and  Clara  Peggottys,  who  reconcile  us 
with  our  kind,  and  Mr.  Pickwick  himself,  "  a  human  being 


Til.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  215 

replete  with  benevolence,"  to  borrow  a  phrase  from  a  noble 
passage  in  Dickens's  most  congenial  predecessor.  These 
characters  in  Dickens  have  a  warmth  which  only  the  cre- 
ations of  Fielding  and  Smollett  had  possessed  before,  and 
which,  like  these  old  masters,  he  occasionally  carries  to 
excess.  At  the  other  extreme  stand  those  characters 
in  which  the  art  of  Dickens,  always  in  union  w^ith  the 
promptings  of  his  moral  nature,  illustrates  the  mitigating 
or  redeeming  qualities  observable  even  in  the  outcasts  of 
our  civilisation.  To  me  his  figures  of  this  kind,  when 
they  are  not  too  intensely  elaborated,  are  not  the  least 
touching ;  and  there  is  something  as  pathetic  in  the  un- 
couth convict  Magwitch  as  in  the  consumptive  crossing- 
sweeper  Jo. 

As  a  matter  of  course  it  is  possible  to  take  exceptions 
of  one  kind  or  another  to  some  of  the  characters  created 
by  Dickens  in  so  extraordinary  a  profusion.  I  hardly 
know  of  any  other  novelist  less  obnoxious  to  the  charge  of 
repeating  himself ;  though,  of  course,  many  characters  in 
his  earlier  or  shorter  works  contained  in  themselves  the 
germs  of  later  and  fuller  developments.  But  Bob  Saw- 
yer and  Dick  Swiveller,  Noah  Claypole  and  Uriah  Heep 
are  at  least  sufficiently  independent  variations  on  the  same 
themes.  On  the  other  hand.  Filer  and  Cute  in  The  Chimes 
were  the  first  sketches  of  Gradgrind  and  Bounderby  in 
Hard  Times  ;  and  Clemency  in  The  Battle  of  Life  prefig- 
ures Peggotty  in  David  Copjier field.  No  one  could  seri- 
ously quarrel  with  such  repetitions  as  these,  and  there  are 
remarkably  few  of  them  ;  for  the  fertile  genius  of  Dickens 
took  delight  in  the  variety  of  its  creativeness,  and,  as  if 
to  exemplify  this,  there  was  no  relation  upon  the  contrast- 
ed humours  of  which  he  better  loved  to  dwell  than  that  of 
partnership.     It  has  been  seen  how  rarely  his  inventive 


216  DICKENS.  [cuap. 

power  condescended  to  supplement  itself  by  wliat  in  the 
novel  corresponds  to  tlie  mimicry  of  the  stage,  and  what 
in  truth  is  as  degrading  to  the  one  as  it  is  to  the  other — 
the  reproduction  of  originals /rom  real  life.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  carries  his  habit  too  far  of  making  a  particular 
phrase  do  duty  as  an  index  of  a  character.  This  trick  also 
is  a  trick  of  the  stage,  where  it  often  enough  makes  the 
judicious  grieve.  Many  may  be  inclined  to  censure  it  in 
Dickens  as  one  of  several  forms  of  the  exaggeration  which 
is  so  frequently  condemned  in  him.  There  was  no  charge 
to  which  he  was  more  sensitive ;  and  in  the  preface  to 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  he  accordingly  (not  for  the  first  time) 
turned  round  upon  the  objectors,  declaring  roundly  that 
"  what  is  exaggeration  to  one  class  of  minds  and  percep- 
tions is  plain  truth  to  another;"  and  hinting  a  doubt 
"  whether  it  is  always  the  writer  who  colours  highly,  or 
whether  it  is  now  and  then  the  reader  whose  eye  for 
colour  is  a  little  dull."  I  certainly  do  not  think  that  the 
term  "  exaggerated "  is  correctly  applied  to  such  conven- 
tional characters  of  sensational  romance  as  Rosa  Dartic, 
who  has,  as  it  were,  lost  her  way  into  David  Copi^rfield^ 
while  Hortense  and  Madame  Dcfarge  seem  to  be  in  their 
proper  places  in  Bleak  House  and  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
In  his  earlier  writings,  and  in  the  fresher  and  less  over- 
charged serious  parts  of  his  later  books,  he  rarely  if  ever 
paints  black  in  black ;  even  the  Jew  Fagin  has  a  moment 
of  relenting  against  the  sleeping  Oliver ;  he  is  not  that  un- 
real thing,  a  "  demon,"  whereas  Sikes  is  that  real  thing,  a 
brute.  On  the  other  hand,  certainly  he  at  times  makes  his 
characters  more  laughable  than  nature  ;  few  great  humour- 
ists have  so  persistently  sought  to  efface  the  line  which 
separates  the  barely  possible  from  the  morally  probable. 
This  was,  no  doubt,  largely  due  to  his  inclination  towards 


til]  the  future  of  DICKENS'S  FAME.  217 

the  grotesque,  which  a  severer  literary  training  might  have 
taught  him  to  restrain.  Thus  he  liked  to  introduce  insane 
or  imbecile  personages  into  fiction,  where,  as  in  real  life, 
they  are  often  dangerous  to  handle.  It  is  to  his  sense  of 
the  grotesque,  rather  than  to  any  deep-seated  satirical  in- 
tention, and  certainly  not  to  any  w^ant  of  reverence  or  piety 
in  his  very  simple  and  very  earnest  nature,  that  I  would 
likewise  ascribe  the  exaowration  and  unfairness  of  which 
he  is  guilty  against  Little  Bethel  and  all  its  works.  But 
in  this,  as  in  other  instances,  no  form  of  humour  requires 
more  delicate  handling  than  the  grotesque,  and  none  is 
more  liable  to  cause  fatigue.  Latterly,  Dickens  was  always 
adding  to  his  gallery  of  eccentric  portraits,  and  if  inner 
currents  may  be  traced  by  outward  signs,  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  apply  the  test  of  his  names,  which  become  more 
and  more  odd  as  their  owners  deviate  more  and  more  from 
the  path  of  nature.  "Who  more  simply  and  yet  more  hap- 
pily named  than  the  leading  members  of  the  Pickwick 
Club — from  the  poet,  Mr.  Snodgrass,  to  the  sportsman,  Mr. 
Winkle — Nathaniel,  not  Daniel ;  but  with  Veneering  and 
Lammle,  and  Boffin  and  Venus,  and  Crisparkle  and  Grew- 
gious — be  they  actual  names  or  not — we  feel  instinctively 
that  we  are  in  the  region  of  the  transnormal. 

Lastly,  in  their  descriptive  power  and  the  faithfulness 
with  which  they  portray  the  life  and  w^ays  of  particular 
periods  or  countries,  of  special  classes,  professions,  or  other 
divisions  of  mankind,  the  books  of  Dickens  arc,  again  of 
course  within  their  range,  unequalled.  He  sought  his  ma- 
terials chiefly  at  home,  though  his  letters  from  Italy  and 
Switzerland  and  America,  and  his  French  pictures  in  sketch 
and  story,  show  how  much  wider  a  field  his  descriptive 
powers  might  have  covered.  The  Sketches  hy  Boz  and 
the  PicTcwick  Papers  showed  a  mastery,  unsurpassed  before 
10* 


218     *  DICKENS.  [chap. 

or  since,  in  the  description  of  tlie  life  of  English  society 
in  its  middle  and  lower  classes,  and  in  Oliver  Twist  he 
lifted  the  curtain  from  some  of  the  rotten  parts  of  our 
civilisation.  This  history  of  a  work-house  child  also  sound- 
ed the  note  of  that  sympathy  with  the  poor  which  gave 
to  Dickens's  descriptions  of  their  sufferings  and  their  strug- 
gles a  veracity  beyond  mere  accuracy  of  detail.  He  was 
still  happier  in  describing  their  household  virtues,  their 
helpfulness  to  one  another,  their  compassion  for  those  who 
are  the  poorest  of  all — the  friendless  and  the  outcast — as 
he  did  in  his  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  and  in  most  of  his 
Christmas  books.  His  pictures  of  middle-class  life  abound- 
ed in  kindly  humour;  but  the  humour  and  pathos  of  pov- 
erty— more  especially  the  poverty  which  has  not  yet  lost 
its  self-respect — commended  themselves  most  of  all  to  his 
descriptive  power.  Where,  as  in  Nicholas  Nicklehy  and 
later  works,  he  essayed  to  describe  the  manners  of  the 
higher  classes,  he  was,  as  a  rule,  far  less  successful ;  partly 
because  there  was  in  his  nature  a  vein  of  rebellion  against 
the  existing  system  of  society,  so  that,  except  in  his  latest 
books,  he  usually  approached  a  description  of  members  of 
its  dominant  orders  with  a  satirical  intention,  or  at  least 
an  undertone  of  bitterness.  At  the  same  time  I  demur  to 
the  common  assertion  that  Dickens  could  not  draw  a  real 
gentleman.  All  that  can  be  said  is  that  it  very  rarely 
suited  his  purpose  to  do  so,  supposing  the  term  to  include 
manners  as  well  as  feelings  and  actions;  though  Mr. 
Twemlow,  in  Our  Mutual  Friend,  might  be  instanced  as 
a  (perhaps  rather  conscious)  exception  of  one  kind,  and 
Sir  Leicester  Dcdlock,  in  the  latter  part  of  Bleak  House, 
as  another.  Moreover,  a  closer  examination  of  Lord  Fred- 
crick  Verisopht  and  Cousin  Feenix  will  show  that,  gull  as 
the  one  and  ninny  as  the  other  is,  neither  has  anything 


VII.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  219 

that  can  be  called  ungentlemanly  about  him ;  on  the  con- 
trary, the  characters,  on  the  whole,  rather  plead  in  favour 
of  the  advantage  than  of  the  valuelessness  of  blue  blood. 
As  for  Dickens's  other  noblemen,  whom  I  find  enumerated 
in  an  American  dictionary  of  his  characters,  they  are  nearly 
all  mere  passing  embodiments  of  satirical  fancies,  which 
pretend  to  be  nothing  more. 

Another  ingenious  enthusiast  has  catalogued  the  nu- 
merous callings,  professions,  and  trades  of  the  personages 
appearing  in  Dickens's  works.  I  cannot  agree  with  the 
criticism  that  in  his  personages  the  man  is  apt  to  become 
forgotten  in  the  externals  of  his  calling — the  barrister's 
wig  and  gown,  as  it  were,  standing  for  the  barrister,  and 
the  beadle's  cocked  hat  and  staff  for  the  beadle.  But  he 
must  have  possessed  in  its  perfection  the  curious  detective 
faculty  of  deducing  a  man's  occupation  from  his  manners. 
To  him  nothing  wore  a  neutral  tint,  and  no  man  or  woman 
was  featureless.  He  was,  it  should  be  remembered,  always 
observing ;  half  his  life  he  was  afoot.  When  he  under- 
took to  describe  any  novel  or  unfamiliar  kind  of  manners, 
he  spared  no  time  or  trouble  in  making  a  special  study  of 
his  subject.  He  was  not  content  to  know  the  haunts  of 
the  London  thieves  by  hearsay,  or  to  read  the  history  of 
opium-smoking  and  its  effects  in  Blue-books.  From  the 
office  of  his  journal  in  London  we  find  him  starting  on 
these  self-imposed  commissions,  and  from  his  hotel  in  New 
York.  The  whole  art  of  descriptive  reporting,  which  has 
no  doubt  produced  a  large  quantity  of  trashy  writing,  but 
has  also  been  of  real  service  in  arousing  a  public  interest 
in  neglected  corners  of  our  social  life,  was,  if  not  actually 
set  on  foot,  at  any  rate  re-invigorated  and  vitalised  by  him. 
No  one  was  so  delighted  to  notice  the  oddities  which 
habit  and  tradition  stereotype  in  particular  classes  of  men. 


220  DICKENS.  [chap. 

A  complete  natural  history  of  the  country  actor,  the  Lon- 
don landlady,  and  the  British  waiter  might  be  compiled 
from  his  pages.  This  power  of  observation  and  descrip- 
tion extended  from  human  life  to  that  of  animals.  His 
habits  of  life  could  not  but  make  him  the  friend  of  dogs, 
and  there  is  some  reason  for  a  title  which  was  bestowed 
on  him  in  a  paper  in  a  London  magazine  concerning  his 
own  dogs — the  Landseer  of  Fiction.  His  letters  are  full 
of  delightful  details  concerning  these  friends  and  com- 
panions, Turk,  Linda,  and  the  rest  of  them ;  nor  is  the 
family  of  their  fictitious  counterparts,  culminating  (intel- 
lectually) in  Merrylegs,  less  numerous  and  delightful. 
Cats  were  less  congenial  to  Dickens,  perhaps  because  he 
had  no  objection  to  changing  house ;  and  they  appear  in 
his  works  in  no  more  attractive  form  than  as  the  attendant 
spirits  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  of  Mr.  Krook.  But  for  the 
humours  of  animals  in  general  he  had  a  wonderfully  quick 
eye.  Of  his  ravens  I  have  already  spoken.  The  pony 
Whisker  is  the  type  of  kind  old  gentlemen's  ponies.  Li 
one  of  his  letters  occurs  an  admirably  droll  description 
of  the  pig-market  at  Boulogne ;  and  the  best  unscientific 
description  ever  given  of  a  spider  was  imagined  by  Dick- 
ens at  Broadstairs,  when  in  his  solitude  he  thought 

"  of  taming  spiders,  as  Baron  Trenck  did.  There  is  one  in  my  cell 
(with  a  speckled  body  and  twenty-two  very  decided  knees)  who  seems 
to  know  rae." 

In  everything,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  he  found 
out  at  once  the  characteristic  feature,  and  reproduced  it  in 
words  of  faultless  precision.  This  is  the  real  secret  of  his 
descriptive  power,  the  exercise  of  which  it  would  be  easy 
to  pursue  through  many  other  classes  of  subjects.  Sce- 
nery, for  its  own  sake,  he  rarely  cared  to  describe ;  but  no 


vii.]  THE  FUTURE  OF  DICKENS'S  FAME.  221 

one  better  understood  how  to  reproduce  the  combined  ef- 
fect of  scenery  and  weather  on  the  predisposed  mind. 
Thus  London  and  its  river  in  especial  are,  as  I  have  said, 
haunted  by  the  memory  of  Dickens's  boohs.  To  me  it 
was  for  years  impossible  to  pass  near  London  Bridge  at 
night,  or  to  idle  in  the  Temple  on  summer  days,  or  to  fre- 
quent a  hundred  other  localities  on  or  near  the  Thames, 
without  instinctively  recalling  pictures  scattered  through 
the  w^orhs  of  Dickens  —  in  this  respect,  also,  a  real  liber 
veritatis. 

Thus,  and  in  many  ways  which  it  would  be  labour  lost 
to  attempt  to  describe,  and  by  many  a  stroke  or  touch  of 
genius  which  it  would  be  idle  to  seek  to  reproduce  in  para- 
phrase, the  most  observing  and  the  most  imaginative  of 
our  English  humourists  revealed  to  us  that  infinite  multi- 
tude of  associations  which  binds  men  together,  and  makes 
us  members  one  of  another.  But  though  observation  and 
imagination  might  discern  and  discover  these  associations, 
sympathy — the  sympathy  of  a  generous  human  heart  with 
humanitj — alone  could  breathe  into  them  the  warmth  of 
life.  Happily,  to  most  men,  there  is  one  place  consecrated 
above  others  to  the  feelings  of  love  and  good-will ;  "  that 
great  altar  where  the  worst  among  us  sometimes  perform 
the  worship  of  the  heart,  and  where  the  best  have  offered 
up  such  sacrifices  and  done  such  deeds  of  heroism  as, 
chronicled,  would  put  the  proudest  temples  of  old  time, 
with  all  their  vaunting  annals,  to  the  blush."  It  was  thus 
that  Dickens  spoke  of  the  sanctity  of  home  ;  and,  English  in 
many  things,  he  was  most  English  in  that  love  of  home  to 
which  he  was  never  weary  of  testifying.  But,  though  the 
"  pathway  of  the  sublime  "  may  have  been  closed  to  him, 
he  knew  well  enough  that  the  interests  of  a  people  and 
the  interests  of  humanity  are  mightier  than  the  domestic 


222  DICKENS.  [chap,  til 

loves  and  cares  of  any  man ;  and  lie  conscientiously  ad- 
dressed himself,  as  to  the  task  of  his  life,  to  the  endeavour 
to  knit  humanity  together.  The  method  which  he,  by  in- 
stinct and  by  choice,  more  especially  pursued  was  that  of 
seeking  to  show  the  "good  in  everything."  This  it  is 
that  made  him,  unreasonably  sometimes,  ignobly  never,  the 
champion  of  the  poor,  the  helpless,  the  outcast.  He  was 
often  tempted  into  a  rhetoric  too  loud  and  too  shrill,  into 
a  satire  neither  fine  nor  fair ;  for  he  was  impatient,  but  not 
impatient  of  what  he  thought  true  and  good.  His  pur- 
pose, however,  was  worthy  of  his  powers ;  nor  is  there  re- 
corded among  the  lives  of  English  men  of  letters  any  more 
single-minded  in  its  aim,  and  more  successful  in  the  pur- 
suit of  it,  than  his.  He  was  much  criticised  in  his  life- 
time ;  and  he  will,  I  am  well  aware,  be  often  criticised  in 
the  future  by  keener  and  more  capable  judges  than  myself. 
They  may  miss  much  in  his  writings  that  I  find  in  them ; 
but,  unless  they  find  one  thing  there,  it  were  better  that 
they  never  opened  one  of  his  books.  He  has  indicated  it 
himself  when  criticising  a  literary  performance  by  a  clever 
writer : 

"  In  this  little  MS.  everything  is  too  much  patronised  and  conde- 
scended to,  whereas  the  slightest  touch  of  feeling  for  the  rustic  who 
is  of  the  earth  earthy,  or  of  sisterhood  with  the  homely  servant  who 
has  made  her  face  shine  in  her  desire  to  please,  would  make  a  differ- 
ence that  the  writer  can  generally  imagine  without  trying  it.  You 
don't  want  any  sentiment  laboriously  made  out  in  such  a  thing.  You 
don't  want  any  maudlin  show  of  it.  But  you  do  want  a  pervading 
suggestion  that  it  is  there." 

The  sentiment  which  Dickens  means  is  the  salt  which 
will  give  a  fresh  savour  of  their  own  to  his  works  so  long 
as  our  language  endures. 

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Few  women— no  living  woman,  indeed— have  so  mnch  strength  as  "George 
Eliot,"  and,  more  than  that,  she  never  allows  it  to  degenerate  into  coarseness: 
with  all  her  so-called  "magcnliue"  vigor,  she  has  a  feminine  tenderness,  which 
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